


Twelve Days of

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Multi, Not Christmas Christmassy, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 22:12:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9036398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: It's christmas, but no one celebrates it. Meandering fic (as always) about them in their big house. There are lots of relationships and things happen and there are meals and penguins seem to feature and I even wrote sex. Basically it's just them being cute. d'Artagnan and Constance do appear, and there are lots of people.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



###  ONE: DECEMBER FIRST

 

Athos is terrible at keeping track of days and dates and months. He doesn’t need to know. He does work when he feels like it, and things like deadlines happen, but usually they happen without him. He relies on his agent to keep him to deadlines. He himself ignores them. He always knows exactly when December begins, though, because when he goes out (he tries to go out every day, even if it’s just for a ten minute walk in the park) he comes back to his house full of penguins. No matter which house he’s at. He’s not sure when Porthos started sneak attacking him with penguins and he’s not sure he understands why, but it is tradition by now and he’d miss it if it stopped. Sylvie, when she gets back from work on the first to find Athos sitting among new cushions and little ceramic statues and stuffed plushies, is a little bewildered. 

 

“Is this some kind of…. Christmas decoration?” Sylvie suggests, looking around. 

 

“I have no idea,” Athos says, looking up at her from his book and smiling at her. “Porthos.”

 

“Ah. Well then, carry on,” Sylvie says, and goes to make dinner. 

 

“I don’t suppose it is a Christmas thing,” Athos says, when they’re eating. “Porthos doesn’t celebrate, and I’m Jewish so nor do I. I think he just sort of likes penguins? Maybe?”

 

“Ok,” Sylvie says. 

 

Porthos turns up, later. It’s Thursday, so him turning up to wherever Athos is at about ten pm is usual. Sylvie’s still getting used to it, and getting used to his Athos-radar. She grills him for ten minutes about how he knew where Athos was, but Porthos doesn’t tell. Athos assumes he either checks lots of places until he finds the right one, or asks someone. Or, well, it’s not like there are really many places Athos might be at ten pm. He doesn’t mind really. It’s nice to have Porthos sprawled on the sofa next to him, the rest is immaterial. Porthos is sprawled next to him hugging a penguin, sleepy. Athos scritches his scalp and Porthos grins, letting his eyes shut, sliding down to sprawl more thoroughly. 

 

“Is he staying the night?” Sylvie asks. 

 

“Nah. Aramis will show at some point to scoop him up,” Athos says. 

 

“Are you staying tonight?” Sylvie asks. 

 

Athos tips his head back to see her, to see if he can tell what she wants from just looking. He could stay here. He’s been here three days, now. Usually he’d head home, he hasn’t stayed away on a Thursday on purpose in a long time, not since Anne and that fiasco of dating. He likes Sylvie, though, and it’s possible that at some point in the future Aramis and Porthos might have to learn to get along on Thursdays without him. Sylvie’s smiling down at them, eyes on Porthos as much as Athos. Warm and fond and content, probably whatever he chooses to do. 

 

“Porthos?” Athos says, nudging him to wake him up a bit. 

 

“Eh?” Porthos mutters, running the conversation back, working out what Athos wants from him. “Oh. Well, I have Boris at home, thought you’d be there so I didn’t bring him for you.”

 

“Boris?” Sylvie asks, frowning. “Is this another boyfriend? Who does he belong to? There are so many attachments!”

 

“He is a giant penguin,” Athos says. He has no wish for Boris, Boris is huge and round and annoying. But Porthos probably means he wants Athos to go home. “A stuffed toy one, not a real one.”

 

“Better come home, for Boris,” Porthos says, nodding to himself. 

 

Athos leaves Porthos on the sofa, to spend some time with Sylvie before Aramis shows up. She’s remarkably patient about his weird boyfriends who sometimes just turn up and take him away, but she does insist that when he’s here he’s spending time with her, even if Porthos is on the sofa. Sleepy Porthos will probably not spend time with her, so they go to the bedroom. Sylvie lies on the bed and watches Athos pack his things. She tells him about rehearsals, and a laughing story about one of the actors bringing their kid along and it causing chaos by strutting out on stage with a sword and joining in one of the fight scenes. 

 

“Do you want them?” Athos asks, a little abruptly, stuffing his t-shirt into his bag and sitting on the bed. Not looking at her. “Children?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe? Is that something you would be interested in, with me?” Sylvie asks. It doesn’t sound too weighty, not as if this is going to make or break them. Athos considers it. “Constance sort of wants them.”

 

Athos knows that, d’Artagnan’s talked to him about it. Knows that Constance doesn’t want them with d’Artagnan, not as long as he’s a soldier and being deployed and possibly dying. She doesn’t want to raise his orphans, or something. Athos isn’t sure he understands because orphan means no parents, and no child born among their mess of relationships would ever be that. He respects the emotion behind it, though. 

 

“Maybe you and she will have them,” Athos says. 

 

“No, I don’t think so,” Sylvie says. “I don’t think we want to raise children together. We want to do things and make things happen, change the world. Her and me don’t want to be wives and mothers with each other.”

 

“With me, though, you might?” Athos asks, feeling the softness of the cotton sheets under his hand, smiling at the thought. 

 

Aramis has children, many of them. Athos likes them well enough. His favourite, though he knows he shouldn’t have favourites, is Henry. It’s partly because Agnes is such a steady influence on Aramis and such a good part of their lives. Her son is as steady as she is, and he’s quiet and a bit shy which Athos understands. 

 

“Perhaps,” Sylvie says. “If we go that way. Perhaps.”

 

“I think I’d like being a father,” Athos admits. 

 

He hasn’t said it out loud, or even really let himself consider it before. It hasn’t come up in any of his relationships. Except the time Aramis wanted to adopt and then got stroppy when Porthos pointed out that their unconventional and sometimes bizarre family would make that difficult. 

 

“I think maybe, one day, that might be something you and I could think about,” Sylvie says. “Now. Will you finally look at me? I’d like to kiss you, before you leave. How far asleep do you think Porthos has got?”

 

“Not far enough for that,” Athos says with a groan at the promise in her voice, flopping back onto the bed and tipping his head to see her, getting a face full of hair. 

 

She laughs and pulls it out of the way, turning so she can kiss his cheek. He turns, too, and gets her lips. They kiss for a while, but don’t do anything more, Porthos being in the next room. He probably wouldn’t mind, in fact Athos knows from experience he’d just ignore it, but it’s definitely still too new with Sylvie for that particular conversation. 

 

“Do you celebrate Christmas?” he asks her, between kisses, stroking her cheek. 

 

“No, not really. I stopped bothering after my father died, living alone. It was never a big thing with us anyway. I do things with the children, at the refugee centre, and I’ve done pantomime like this year since I was about nineteen, so I do christmassy things.”

 

“Another non-Christmasser to add to our collection,” Athos says. “That makes all of us, aside from Anne. She has Louis and Louis, though, and they do the big posh family thing.”

 

“I can’t believe they named their baby the exact same thing as his Dad,” Sylvie says. 

 

“They’re posh,” Athos says, shrugging. 

 

Aramis arrives, then, and Athos has to say goodbye to Sylvie. He leaves Aramis to scrape Porthos up off the sofa out of his melting semi-nap, and focuses on Sylvie, on her body under his hands, her clothing, her face tipped up to his, her smile, her lips, her bright eyes. He holds her, hand in her hair, and she pulls him closer, kissing him. 

 

“I’ll see you Sunday?” She checks, when they pull apart. 

 

Athos nods, and tears himself away from her, from her warm flat, the growing familiarity, the excitement and joy of her. Aramis and Porthos have waited in the hall for him, and greet him with sympathy, amusement and understanding. Porthos tucks him into his side and they stumble on the stairs trying to walk like that, which sets Athos laughing, holding onto Porthos’s biceps to keep from tumbling painfully to the bottom. 

 

“Did you drive, love?” Aramis asks, outside, peering around in the drizzle. 

 

“No,” Porthos says. 

 

“Nope,” Athos says. 

 

“Well, I’ve got the BMW,” Aramis says. “One of you is walking.”

 

The BMW is Aramis’s latest excitement. He has a people carrier, for all his various children. But for Porthos things like practicality and reason take flight when he gets involved with cars. He buys the one he thinks looks fast and pretty. He trades it in every few years for a new, ‘more fun’ one, drives the new one a couple of times, then forgets about it. Aramis loves the BMW, and when he doesn’t have the kids he always drives it. Athos and Porthos both run for the car, shoving each other playfully. Porthos gets the seat, but Athos just sits on top of him, scrunching himself into the small space. Aramis stands with his hands on his hips and gives them a lecture in safety, but Porthos just wraps his arms around Athos. 

 

“Look, seatbelt,” Athos says. 

 

“You two are worse than any of my lot,” Aramis says, getting in and starting the engine, looking over at them. “I don’t suppose you’re going to fly through the windshield, though, you look pretty wedged in. Fine, but if we get stopped you’re doing the talking.”

 

He pulls away. Aramis might love the sporty cars and wax lyrical about the engine and horsepower and naught to sixty and speeds, but he drives like a granny, obeying every traffic law, carefully checking his mirrors and blind spots. It’s ridiculous, but Athos can’t complain. If he complains he just gets a safety lecture, and it always ends up with Aramis asking if they WANT him to risk hurting his babies, hmm? Hmm? No matter that none of Aramis’s ‘babies’ are ever even allowed in the BMW, even just to sit. In case it should take off on its own and utilize all the horsepower and naught to sixty and engine that Aramis knows so much about. He shows them YouTube videos of children taking the break off in a car, and gives them dark, significant looks. 

 

“Come on, Aramis, can’t we go a bit faster?” Porthos says. 

 

Athos groans, and they get lectured the rest of the way home. He can feel Porthos smiling against his neck, and occasional chuckles muffled there, amusment vibrating them both. Porthos interjects now and then to keep Aramis going, riling him up until he’s gesticulating wildly whenever they’re stopped for lights. When he’s driving he keeps both hands firmly on the wheel, but his eyes get bright and irritable and he shifts and wriggles in his seat. 

 

“You’re terrible,” Athos murmurs to Porthos, when they finally get home and Aramis has got out. 

 

“I find it cute,” Porthos says. “He gets so flustered. It makes his hair all staticy, and he gets all huffy.”

 

Athos levers himself out of the car, unwedging himself, and waits for Porthos. Aramis has stomped inside, but he’s left the front door open so he’s not too bad tempered. Porthos wraps himself around Athos and they have to sort of waddle inside. 

 

“He’s missed you,” Aramis says, grinning, shutting the door behind them, bad temper forgotten. “He’s insisted on having Boris in bed with us to compensate.”

 

“I have not,” Porthos protests, letting Athos go. “You were the one wanted Boris! I didn’t miss Athos a bit, really. Except on Wednesday, but that was only because Athos is  _ supposed _ to come  _ home _ on Wednesday.”

 

Oh yeah. Athos tries to look guilty, but can’t quite manage it. At least he called to explain he wasn’t coming, yesterday. He’s pretty sure he’s grinning. Porthos huffs and goes to sulk in the kitchen, hopefully making a pot of coffee. Athos kicks his shoes off and stands, waiting for Aramis to move out of his way so he can get further into the house than the hallway. 

 

“I did miss you,” Aramis admits, rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

“Should we talk about it?” Athos asks, rubbing his foot on the carpet. He doesn’t like talking, but he knows it’s necessary. 

 

“Maybe,” Aramis says. Then he grins. “No. We’re good. Wednesday was hilarious, Porthos just kept telling me you rang him naked!”

 

It hadn’t even been sex. He and Sylvie had just been curled up together on the sofa, talking, and Athos had simply forgotten to come home. 

 

“I wasn’t allowed Boris,” Aramis says, pouting around laughter. “It wasn’t December yet.”

 

Athos laughs, and they go to the living room, Aramis kneeling to get a fire started. Or he tries, anyway. Athos watched, providing unhelpful advice and helpful sarcasm. Aramis’s glares can possibly light the fire. Sarcasm helps glares. Porthos comes in with a tray, with coffee and biscuits and fruit and a toasted cheese sandwich. He sets it on the coffee table and pushes Aramis out of the way. Aramis comes and sits beside Athos, and stuffs as much of the sandwich in his mouth as he can while Porthos isn’t looking. Porthos manages the fire without any trouble at all, and he turns in time to see the second half of his sandwich disappearing into Aramis’s already full mouth. Porthos opens his mouth, then closes it. He ignores Aramis, and goes to sit in the arm chair with the plate of biscuits. Athos pours him a cup of coffee, too, and discovers that though it’s his posh le creuset coffee pot, it’s not got coffee in it, it has hot chocolate.

 

“Caffeine before bed is rubbish for your insomnia,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yes, but it’s also very tasty,” Athos says, looking sadly at his mug of hot chocolate. He sips it dolefully, and discovers that it’s pepperminty hot chocolate. Porthos beams at him. “Very Christmassy. Why?”

 

“I like Christmassy things,” Porthos says, sprawling himself deeper into the chair with a contented snuffling. “Mmm peppermint hot chocolate. That’s better than Athos, anyway. You’ve been replaced.”

 

Aramis snorts, finally managing to swallow the sandwich. He wriggles closer to Athos and leans against him sighing happily. 

 

“I prefer Athos,” Aramis says, tipping his head back on Athos’s shoulder. 

 

“I think you’re both ridiculous,” Athos says.

 

“Well. My ridiculous self is going out on a date tomorrow,” Porthos says, then sneezes rather forcefully. “Oh. Unless this is yet another cold, and I sneeze out my brains.”

 

Aramis gets up and finds a box of tissues, and a thermometer, and a blanket, and a microwave heatable bear, and a cold and flu pill, and a packet of Soothers. He gets Porthos’s tray to carry everything in and fusses over Porthos, ousting Athos from the sofa and settling Porthos horizontal there, tucking him in, making him take medicine, tucking the bear in too. Porthos throws the Soothers at Aramis’s head when Aramis tries to take his temperature. 

 

“I’ll get the nice rectal thermometer I have from work, if you don’t behave,” Aramis says sternly. 

 

“It’s for cats! You’re a vet!” Porthos yelps, trying to escape. 

 

Aramis has tucked the blankets too firmly, though. Porthos has no choice but to let Aramis stick the thermometer in his ear. Athos sits helpfully on Porthos’s feet and settles back down with his hot chocolate and a satsuma. It’s one of the ones which has leaves on it. 

 

“Are we celebrating Hanukkah this year?” Porthos asks. 

 

“No,” Athos says. “I’ll do it with Constance.”

 

“You have a fever, baby,” Aramis says. 

 

“No I don’t that’s my normal temp,” Porthos says. 

 

“That’s his normal temp,” Athos confirms, when Aramis shows him the thermometer. 

 

“I guess so,” Aramis says, frowning. “Matty’s had the flu, though, maybe he caught it?”

 

“Porthos has a snotty nose, not the flu,” Athos says. “Possibly man flu.”

 

“Matty didn’t have the flu, anyway,” Porthos says. “He had a fever.”

 

“He was feeling so sick though,” Aramis says. “I think it was probably the flu, or at least a stomach bug.”

 

“He had a poo and felt better,” Porthos says. “I know, I stayed home with him, remember?”

 

“Yeah, that’s why you probably caught it!” Aramis says. 

 

“Needing a shit, or the fever I haven’t got?” Porthos says. 

 

Aramis bites his lip, but it’s to keep from laughing not from worry. Athos passes Porthos the satsuma in the hopes it’ll get peeled for him. Aramis sighs and subsides, stopping with his worry. He sits on the floor by Porthos’s head, though, and now and then he turns to stroke Porthos’s cheek, or kiss his shoulder, or ask if he wants anything. Athos gets his satsuma back peeled. 

 

“Christmassy oranges,” Porthos whispers, grinning at Athos. “Little leaves and everything.”

 

“Lovely,” Athos agrees. 

 

Aramis puts the TV on to watch the news, and then Athos wants to watch Poirot even though it’s a repeat they’ve seen before, and Porthos falls asleep before Poirot tells them who the killer is. Athos remembers all the little secrets carefully, to tell Porthos about when he wakes up. Porthos likes the secrets. Aramis eats the rest of the biscuits and takes Porthos’s temperature again while he’s asleep and can make no complaint. Athos confiscates the thermometer when Aramis goes to the loo, hiding it under Porthos’s thigh. He stretches out on top of Porthos to wake him up, Poirot over. 

 

“Bed time,” he whispers, when Porthos’s eyes blink sleepily open. 

 

“Ah!” Porthos says, trying to jerk his head back. “Christ! You’re very close!”

 

“I’m on top of you,” Athos says, laughing. “It’s bed time.”

 

“I’m not having sex with you, I have a cold and a date tomorrow. I’m resting,” Porthos says. “Besides, Boris is up there. He’ll watch, and that’s just creepy.”

 

“We can put him in the closet,” Athos says. 

 

“No we can’t,” Porthos says.

 

“Come on! It’s not like Aramis will want sex. He never wants sex,” Athos says, then grins. “Oh. Wait. That doesn’t sound right.”

 

Porthos sniggers, and sits up, displacing Athos. He heaves himself up off the sofa, untangling himself from blanket and bear, and lumbers towards the bedroom with a handful of sneezes and a rough sounding cough. Athos gathers up the soothers and makes him a mug of lemon and honey, then follows, leaving the living room a mess for Aramis to clear up. Porthos is already asleep when Athos gets up to their bedroom, so Athos drinks the lemon and honey sitting up on the bed next to Boris. Aramis comes up ten minutes later, thermometer in hand.

 

“Did you try and hide this?” Aramis asks, scowling. 

 

“Nope,” Athos says. “Porthos says Boris can’t go in the closet, so there’s no space for you.”

 

Aramis puts Boris on the floor and takes his clothes off in an enthusiastic energetic rush, bouncing into bed between Athos and Porthos. He stretches out, naked, smiling. He’s forgotten to take his socks off, and looks endearingly absurd. Athos gets up, takes his own t-shirt off, and wriggles out of his jeans, then looks over his shoulder to make sure Aramis is watching before sliding his thumbs under his pants waistband. 

 

“Go on, then,” Aramis says, voice a little hoarse, cock thickening against his thigh. “Haven’t seen your arse in weeks, love.”

 

“Boris is watching,” Athos says. 

 

Aramis shoves Boris under the bed, and Athos tries to be sexy about getting out of his pants. 

  
  


###  TWO: DECEMBER FOURTH

 

Athos usually hides from the influx of people that happens one Sunday in every month. Everyone invites all their various attachments, Porthos makes ridiculous amounts of food, Aramis entertains whoever out of his brood of children in the garden, and chaos ensues. Today, though, Athos hovers on the stairs as people arrive, waiting for Sylvie. It pisses Porthos off, because Athos keeps on getting in his way as he hurries about getting things ready, but Athos doesn’t mind. He just snags Porthos now and then and gives him a kiss to keep him happy-ish. 

 

d’Artagnan’s first to arrive, bringing beer and potato salad and nearly dropping both in his enthusiasm to hug Porthos. Porthos is pleased to see him, because d’Artagnan helps out setting things up and hosting. Agnes is next, dropping Henry and Matty off with Aramis, who promises to have Henry home by eight and to keep Matty overnight and return him to his parents in the morning. Aramis had fostered Matty when he was a baby, and then provided regular respite care, and still does from time to time but mostly now it’s an informal agreement between Aramis and Matty’s Mum that Aramis continue to be part of Matty’s life. After them is Adele, one of Aramis’s newer girlfriends, who looks around in slightly apprehensive bafflement. Porthos welcomes her with a glass of wine and takes her through to the livingroom where Aramis is paying board games with the boys. 

 

Athos watches Paulina, one of Aramis’s older daughter, come in glued to her phone texting her boyfriend, and then Alice, who cheers Porthos up. Usually shy and quiet, though self-possessed, she’s brimming over with excitement today about a trip to Paris with her friend, a romantic gift from Porthos that had included so little romance and no Porthos, and confused the hell out of Aramis. Porthos just stubbornly asserts that she’d wanted to travel, but not the way he does. No one wants to travel the way Porthos does, because it’s nuts. Porthos just goes, regardless of money or accommodation arrangements or insurance. He usually manages to get a job and make his way fine, sofa surfing and visiting friends and making new friends to visit in the future. Some of the friends turn up here from time to time and get put up in the spare room, and tell all kinds of wacky stories about how they met Porthos. Athos completely understands Alice going with a friend on her adventure. Porthos’s adventures seem unnecessarily adventurous, sometimes. 

 

Finally Sylvie turns up, at nearly twelve o’clock (actual arrival time. No one ever arrives at the actual arrival time), with Constance. They bring wine and head for the kitchen, Athos trailing after them, eyes on Sylvie. When they’ve put the white in the fridge and the red to join the open bottle on the sideboard, d’Artagnan comes and kisses Constance. Sylvie turns, sees Athos waiting, and smiles. Her smile is one of his favourite things about her. It’s so warm and genuine, and goes all the way into her eyes, her posture straightening, happiness diffusing all the way to her fingertips. Athos smiles back, and Sylvie laughs, coming to cradle his face. 

 

“I missed you,” Athos says. 

 

“Did you? I saw you on Thursday morning! And we talked last night, and Friday lunch time,” Sylvie says, amused but pleased. 

 

Athos kisses her to stop her saying more of his ridiculousness out loud. Someone might hear and think Athos is going soft. Though, Aramis says Athos has always been soft as butter, so maybe his reputation hasn’t got far to go. He tries to get Sylvie to come somewhere quieter, but she wants to see everyone and be sociable. She holds his hand and doesn’t mind that he’s quiet, so he accepts that. They stay in the kitchen for a while talking to Constance and d’Artagnan, then fill plates and head to the living-room where everyone else is. Aramis has left the boys to a game of snakes and ladders, and is sitting against the sofa with Adele. Porthos is sat on the piano stool, Alice perched beside him crammed into the small space left, eyes bright, telling him stories about Paris still. Paulina’s lying on the sofa texting. Athos makes Paulina sit up, making space for him and Sylvie. Who at once engages Paulina in conversation about her boyfriend. 

 

Athos is content to sit holding Sylvie’s hand, resting his head back on the sofa cushions, listening to Porthos and Alice talking about Paris. Porthos tells a laughing story about a strange bloke in a coat getting him through the metro turnstile, with some kind of magnet, when Porthos lost his ticket. Alice looks worried, which Porthos doesn’t notice, at once launching into the story about a man hearing Flea speaking loud English and going for them with a bike lock. And the man at the market who gave them free peaches, and the woman who sat and watched Porthos draw, talking to him in rapid French that Porthos couldn’t follow, and the women with the great hair who’d walked past who Porthos had sketched, and a whole host of impressions and people and places falling around Porthos’s quick-gestures, the strokes of his descriptions, the business of his voice to make tone and language fit the picture he’s painting for Alice of the Paris he saw. Alice, always fascinated by Porthos’s storytelling, listens rapt. 

 

“Didn’t you get stuck in Paris? You missed the bloody Eurostar, didn’t you?” Athos says. 

 

“Yep,” Porthos says cheerfully. “Couldn’t afford to get new tickets, or fly home, or anything. I stuck around a bit, got a job, got home a month later.”

 

“Flea managed not to miss the Eurostar,” Athos says. 

 

“I learnt French,” Porthos says, as if that makes up for missing the train. 

 

“I am never taking you anywhere,” Alice says. “You are a terrible traveler!”

 

“I’m a great traveler. I’m going to find chocolate,” Porthos says. “Save my seat, and think of some more stories to tell me. I want to hear everything.”

 

He gets up and moves swiftly through the mess of children and people, out into the hall. Athos narrows his eyes, watching Porthos’s gait, his shoulders, the set of his face. He turns to listen to Sylvie for a while, playing with her fingers in his, but Porthos doesn’t return with chocolate. Alice has been drawn into a conversation with Adele and doesn’t notice, but Aramis does. Athos meets his eyes, and gets up, following Porthos. He checks the kitchen, then the back garden, two of Porthos’s favourite places to sulk, then d’Artagnan comes down from the bathroom. 

 

“He’s up in your bedroom,” d’Artagnan says, seeing Athos in the hall. 

 

He sounds cross with Athos, which means it’s Athos who’s upset Porthos, though he doesn’t know how. They always tease Porthos about missing the Eurostar. Athos heads upstairs to investigate, and finds Porthos, sure enough, in the bedroom. He’s standing by the window, looking out at the garden, snuffling. Athos thinks he might be crying, but then remembers his cold. Porthos rubs at his eyes, which could indicate either cold or crying. He doesn’t notice Athos, who gently shuts the door and goes over, wrapping his hand around Porthos’s biceps, pulling him into a hug. 

 

“Oh. Hello,” Porthos says. 

 

“d’Artagnan seems to think I’ve upset you,” Athos says. 

 

“No. Nah, not much. Not really,” Porthos says. Then he heaves a huge sigh, bending to rest his head on Athos’s shoulder. “Not really.”

 

Athos draws him to the bed, and the lie down together, Porthos sighing again and curling close with a little cough. 

 

“I have. Not on purpose and maybe not by doing something wrong, but something I did or said has upset you,” Athos says. 

 

“Not really,” Porthos says. “No, really, I mean it’s not… we agreed that the excitement of new people sometimes will make our routines and set dates and stuff different and that that’s okay, and you called Wednesday so it should have been fine. I should be fine with it all.”

 

“But you aren’t,” Athos says.

 

He focusses carefully on Porthos and Porthos’s things, putting away his own irritation and upset. And Sylvie. He loves Sylvie and isn’t going to do anything to compromise that or apologise for that, but he is going to listen to Porthos. Maybe they can fix it. Maybe they can’t. Better to know what’s going on, either way. Besides which, he also loves Porthos, and doesn’t want him upset or hurt by Sylvie, by something so good and wonderful and exciting. 

 

“No. Not fine with it. Obviously you and Sylvie-”

 

“Shh. Let me worry about me and Sylvie, and Sylvie, and myself. Just tell me,” Athos says. 

 

“You spend so much time with her, and are never here, and even when you are here you talk about her or think about her or text or ring her. You really really like her. Maybe you don’t like me anymore. She’s so young. I don’t like the way she talks, sometimes, it makes me tired and makes me feel old. I used to believe in things like that. I miss you,” Porthos says. “I don’t even know! I just don’t like it. I’m jealous maybe?”

 

“You’re better at feelings than I am,” Athos points out. 

 

“I’m scared you’ll leave,” Porthos says, with another little cough. “You want big important things with Sylvie, life things. This house and you and Aramis is my family.”

 

“I know. It’s still important to me,” Athos says. 

 

“I want you to stay here,” Porthos says.

 

“I am staying here,” Athos says. “I’ve been here since Thursday.”

 

“But you’re going to go with Sylvie, tonight. I know it. And you might not come back.”

 

“I’ll always come back. I will always come back here, to this home, this family. It’s my home, too, and my family. I built this with you, I love it as much as you do,” Athos says. 

 

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Porthos mutters, but he’s grouchy now, less upset, and he’s relaxing into Athos’s arms.

 

“What can I do to make it feel like it?” Athos asks. 

 

“Stay. Go to Sylvie tomorrow, but stay here tonight. And come home Wednesday and Thursday,” Porthos says. 

 

“Okay,” Athos says, willingly, easily.

 

He had been planning on going back to Sylvie’s, but he doesn’t need to. She’ll still be there tomorrow, and that’s one of the joys of his and Sylvie’s relationship- it is new and exciting, but they both already know it’s going to be there for a long time. They can afford to go slowly, they’ve got plenty of time to settle into it.

 

“It’s been a long term,” Porthos says. “We don’t finish till the twenty third this year, that’s nearly Christmas Eve.”

 

“We don’t celebrate Christmas,” Athos reminds him 

 

“It’s the day before Hanukkah, too, this year. I googled it,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yes. You don’t celebrate that, either.”

 

“Aren’t I allowed to celebrate anything?” Porthos grumbles, fingers digging out Athos’s ticklish spot and wriggling, making him squirm. 

 

“Stop that! You can celebrate anything you like!” 

 

“I don’t want to celebrate Christmas,” Porthos says, fingers stilling. “Aramis is upset about Christmas.”

 

“He’s upset about Christmas every year. It’s sad for him,” Athos says. 

 

“He misses his Mum,” Porthos says. “Keeps telling me about being taken away from her.”

 

“Ask him not to, if you don’t want him to,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah, I guess. Agnes invited him to Christmas with them,” Porthos says. “He’s all conflicted about it all. Wants to talk.”

 

“He can talk to me,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll suggest that. Might take a nap, I’m feeling pathetic and sad,” Porthos says. 

 

There’s a soft knock on the door, and Aramis comes creeping in, coming over to snuggle on the bed with them. 

 

“Aw, you look like a little fluff,” Aramis says to Porthos, wrapping him in a tight embrace. “Are you feeling happier?”

 

“No,” Porthos says. “I’m grumpy and sad and pathetic.”

 

Aramis hums and kisses the back of Porthos’s neck. Porthos sighs, happily this time, and settles down between them, held by them both. He doesn’t nap, he gets more awake, and a bit giggly, and kisses Athos a lot, and then wriggles out of their arms and crashes downstairs shouting about chocolate. Athos and Aramis follow more sedately, arm in arm. Sylvie, on Athos’s reappearance in the living-room, beams at him and makes him welcome on the sofa and gives him a kiss, and Athos can’t help the swell of joy and happiness, even though Porthos is miserable about all of this. It’ll be okay- they’ll reassure Porthos, it’ll be the Christmas holidays soon and he’ll get a break. And Aramis will be around, with his kids, and going to buy them outrageous amounts of presents, usually using Porthos or Athos’s money. Athos and Porthos both have family money, and both of them are happy to finance Aramis’s spending sprees on his children. 

 

Porthos and d’Artagnan start a rowdy game in the garden, and Constance and Alice and Adele go through to the kitchen to do some kind of crafty thing or drawing thing or something, maybe just gossiping, and Aramis falls asleep in the armchair. Paulina sits quietly in the window texting. It’s nice, with less people, mostly just Athos and Sylvie. She holds his hand and they just sit together, and he doesn’t need to talk. He kisses her and strokes her cheek, and rubs her shoulder, and she smiles at him, warm and content. She shifts until she’s settled against his chest, and he wraps his arms around her, pressing his face into her hair, her body familiar. She rests her head back on his shoulder so he can see her skin, smell her, press his cheek to her forehead for a moment. 

 

“I like Sundays,” Sylvie says. “It feels like family.”

 

“It is family,” Athos says. “You are always very welcome to invite people along. Everyone is. Adele sometimes brings her girlfriend, Ninon. And Alice brings her sister now and then, and Constance’s three brothers make periodic appearances. Porthos has many and varied people who come and go, and Aramis has an entire brood of children and their mothers, who in turn bring their own children and partners. It gets chaotic sometimes. Today is fairly quiet.”

 

“And what about Athos? Who does Athos bring?” Sylvie asks, rolling her head on his shoulder so he can see her cheek and a glimpse of her eyes, a flash of her smile. He kisses her warm cheek, and it rounds with another smile, her breath against him. 

 

“I bring you,” Athos says. “I haven’t got many people, but I have as much as I need. Constance is technically mine, anyway. I brought her first. Then Porthos decided he wanted to keep her and her boyfriend for himself, and they became fixtures, and stopped being mine.”

 

Sylvie laughs and reaches up to cradle his cheek, nudging with her knuckles until his little grouch turns into a smile. He bends to kiss her, twisting so he can reach her lips. 

 

“Would it bother you if I had a whole crowd, like Porthos? Or many children, like Aramis?” Athos asks, pulling back a little. 

 

“No. I don’t think so. Though, how many does Porthos have?” Sylvie asks, sounding a little bewildered. 

 

“I’m not entirely sure. There’s Alice and d’Art, of course, and he and Constance sometimes have a thing.”

 

“Yep. I know about that one from her,” Sylvie says. 

 

“Then there’s Treville, but they haven’t dated in a long time I think they’re just friends now. Flea is still his girl, but in a mostly not way now that she’s dating Charon, who’s a little jealous. He’s sort of Porthos’s brother. Um,” Athos says, trying to remember all of Porthos’s various relationships. “I think that’s it at the moment? I can’t think of anyone else off the top of my head, anyway. Unless he’s still seeing Sofia. Aramis is easier, because at the moment he’s only seeing us and Adele, and Agnes. But if we include the mothers and his children, I get so lost.”

 

“But you just have me,” Sylvie says. “Poor lonely Athos.”

 

“Maybe I just haven’t got as big a heart as Porthos,” Athos says. “No, well, I don’t think anyone loves quite the way he does. I’m not lonely.”

 

Sylvie snuggles more securely into his arms, as Aramis wakes with a snort. Paulina looks up at him, and goes to sit on the arm of his chair. 

 

“Hello snufkin,” Aramis says, wrapping an arm around her slim waist. 

 

She’s not much to her, Paulina. Tall and thin, athletic, delicate. Aramis dotes on her, sometimes a little more than the others even. He says she’s special, his first. Isabella’s. Isabella’s name is always said with reverence. Athos personally thinks it makes it sounds like she’s dead, which she isn’t. She was just seventeen and didn’t want to raise a kid, so Paulina grew up in care until Aramis found her and fostered her and made her family. Athos thinks that it is good it happened that way, because Aramis when he was eighteen and flighty and restless would have made a terrible father, but Aramis at twenty six was very ready to be a Dad, and Aramis now, at thirty three, is fantastic with all of them but especially his darling Paulina. 

 

“Papa, can Pierre come with me when you take me to the theatre next time?” Paulina asks, resting her cheek against Aramis’s head. Aramis blinks sleepily and smiles goofily, and Athos hides his smirk, leaving Paulina to her manipulations. 

 

“If you like,” Aramis says. 

 

“Thank you, Dad,” she says, kissing his forehead.

 

“Shall we go see what the boys are doing?” Aramis asks, getting up, arm still around his daughter’s waist. 

 

They go together, and Athos allows himself his laughter. He tells Sylvie the story about Paulina staying over with them when she was nine, and Porthos finding her on Aramis’s bed eating a box of Celebrations. She’d passed it over willingly enough, and then fifteen minutes later had come to tell them that she’d hidden some under the pillow for later and felt guilty, and then Porthos had found wrappers, once she’d left, under her bed. And little stashes of chocolate around the room. He’d thought she was hoarding food and maybe wasn’t being fed properly when she wasn’t with them, but that had turned out not to be the case, luckily. 

 

“I like her very much,” Sylvie says, smiling broadly. 

 

“So do I,” Athos admits. “She’s smart.”

 

“There’s no one in here but us, now,” Sylvie says. 

 

Athos hums in pleased agreement. They’re interrupted before they can do much, though, by Porthos coming in with a mug of coffee, a little muddy, and collapsing dramatically in the armchair, telling them loudly about the game from the garden. Alice follows him, and then Adele, and soon the room is full again. Athos tries to feel chagrined, but he can only feel amused, and warm, and happy. Sitting among his family, with Sylvie in his arms, he is only happy. 

###  THREE: DECEMBER TENTH

 

“It’s snowing.”

 

Athos shivers as Aramis comes to wrap his arms around him from behind, whispering in his ear, breath a gentle exhale there. It isn’t actually snowing, but Porthos has stuck window decals everywhere, of white snowflakes. He’s also been crocheting snowflake patterns, lacy things that are hanging everywhere, in stacks on the coffee table, creeping into books as bookmarks. He says it’s wintery, not christmassy, and is slowly and stubbornly inundating them. There are paper cut outs, too, that he made with Matty and Henry, last Sunday evening, by folding and cutting printer paper from Athos’s study. So it’s sort of snowing. Athos can’t help the little inward smile, leaning into Aramis’s warmth, the evidence of Porthos’s presence in their lives and thoughts around them. 

 

“Porthos?” Athos asks. 

 

“Still sleeping,” Aramis says, still nuzzled close, breath puffing against Athos’s ear.

 

“Mm,” Athos agrees, enjoying Aramis’s nuzzling. He’s sort of kissing, now, along Athos’s jaw, wriggling closer. “Maybe he’d like to… you know.”

 

“Oh, Athos, my darling, I  _ do _ know. I  _ always _ know,” Aramis purs, then closes his lips around Athos’s ear, gives it a fond bite, and draws back. 

 

Athos makes a sad noise and turns away from the window of snowflakes. And notices for the first time that Aramis is wearing nothing except a hat. A hat with ear flaps. A hat with ear flaps in the shape of a penguin head. Athos stares for a moment, decides not to ask, and tiptoes back to their bedroom. He’s been stood in the hallway, distracted on his way back from taking a piss by a fox in the garden. Sure enough, Porthos is still curled and snoring, buried in the huge stack of pillows Aramis loves. Aramis usually starts the night with them all, but usually Porthos will end up nesting in them. Awake, he’s the cuddliest of anyone Athos has ever met, but he tends to build barriers around himself while he sleeps. Which is sad. Athos sits on the edge of the bed, and then checks the time. 

 

Seeing as it’s ten am it’s definitely late enough to wake Porthos up, so Athos carefully removes some of the pillows, which makes Porthos huff and his face crinkle. Athos lies down beside him, nose to nose, and smushes them close together. Porthos huffs again and shakes his head and pulls away, opening his eyes to slits and giving Athos a sleepy, soft, bewildered look. Athos presses their faces together again. 

 

“Morning,” he whispers. 

 

Porthos makes a hoarse grumpy sound, and pulls a pillow over his head. Athos’s head is too close, though, and gets a pillow over it too, and they’re under there together. Athos cradles Porthos’s cheek and smiles, tilting so their lips are pressed instead of their noses, pillow squashing. Porthos raises the pillow a bit and then pulls it down again once they’re settled and comfy and close like that. 

 

“What about me?” Aramis says, plaintively, from behind Athos. 

 

Athos wriggles closer to Porthos making room behind, because otherwise Aramis will jam himself between them. Porthos doesn’t move the pillow though. He grumbles and wraps his arms around Athos and Aramis both, shifting to tuck his head under Athos’s chin. Athos can feel him grinning, lips against Athos’s skin. Aramis jams his head under the pillow with them, getting up on an elbow and smushing his cheek against Athos’s, spread against Athos’s back.

 

“What are we doing under here?” Aramis whispers.

 

“Sulking,” Athos says. 

 

“Cuddling,” Porthos says. 

 

“Sulking and cuddling,” Aramis says. “Great. Are we going to be doing that long? I think we should have breakfast. I’m hungry.”

 

His stomach rumbles to back up his claim, and Athos laughs. He doesn’t move, though, and Porthos doesn’t either. The pillow slides off, displaced by Aramis’s wriggling. Porthos heaves a breath, probably preparing to get up and make Aramis breakfast. Athos gets his arms around Porthos in time to stop that happening. Aramis can get his own breakfast. Aramis doesn’t, he snuggles up behind Athos and starts kissing Athos’s neck and shoulder. Porthos mumbles something about something. Athos hums. Aramis’s fingers play along Athos’s side, getting under his t-shirt, then still. Athos tucks his hands inside the waist of Porthos’s pyjama bottoms, against the warm skin of his side and back. They settle, comfortable, and stay like that until Porthos’s stomach grumbles loudly. Athos extricates himself, then.

 

“Breakfast?” he suggests. 

 

“Oh now you want breakfast. I guess Porthos is important, but not Aramis,” Aramis says, splaying himself out face down in the pillows. 

 

“I am very important,” Porthos says, sitting up. “As is my stomach.”

 

“I’ll make you and your important stomach waffles,” Athos says, holding out his hand. “You are important, Aramis. Shall I make some waffles for your important stomach, too?”

 

Porthos wanders over and takes Athos’s hand. Aramis gets up too, so Athos leads Porthos down to the kitchen, Aramis following. Aramis doesn’t bother to put any clothes on, except for his slippers and pants, and keeps the penguin hat. He also diverts to Athos’s office and gets himself a sticky label, which he sticks to his naked stomach, and writes ‘V.I.S’ on it. Porthos tries to peel it off to see better, when Aramis joins them, while Athos makes waffle batter, but Aramis slaps his hands away and goes get his reading glasses from the living-room. They usually end up down the side of the sofa. 

 

“V-I-S. Vis? Eh?” Porthos says. 

 

Athos turns, so he can get a long look at Porthos in glasses. He’s still looking all sleepy, and his clothes are soft pyjamas, and he looks very snuggly and warm, all soft and round and lovely, face softened by the glasses. Athos goes to give him a snuggle from behind, arms around his broad shoulders, nuzzling into his hair. 

 

“Very Important Stomach,” Aramis says. “What’s all this cuddling without me, this morning?”

 

“You look ridiculous. Porthos looks snuggly,” Athos says, muffled by Porthos’s curls. “Are you getting a haircut soon?”

 

“No,” Aramis says. “I’m growing it. I’m going to have a ponytail and embarrass Margueritte. She’s twelve now, and hard to embarrass, but I reckon a ponytail-”

 

“I meant Porthos,” Athos says. 

 

“Again,” Aramis says. “What am I, chopped liver?”

 

“Pickled,” Porthos says. 

 

“What?” Athos asks. “You can’t pickle hair. Is it some kind of new hairstyle your kids have at school?”

 

Porthos roars with laughter, shaking and rumbling with it against Athos, head tipping back and whacking Athos’s chin. Athos jerks, managing not to bite his tongue, and retreats to a safe distance. 

 

“Pickled liver, I think he meant,” Aramis says. “I got rather drunk, the night before last. When you were at Sylvie’s. He filmed me singing.”

 

“Pickled hair!” Porthos gasps, still laughing. 

 

Athos goes to finish the batter, and turns the waffle iron on, smiling to hear Porthos laughing. Aramis joins in, at Porthos’s hilarity, little chuckling giggles. Athos puts the first two waffles in, they have a double iron (luckily), and then turns to watch again. Aramis is watching Porthos with a fond affectionate look, perched on the stool they have in here, and he doesn’t look so entirely ridiculous. Athos goes to give him a cuddle, too, and Aramis wraps his arms around his waist and then pushes up his t-shirt to blow a raspberry against his stomach, which sets Porthos laughing again. It tickles, and Athos wriggles. Aramis just kisses the bit of skin, then licks it, then rests his head there, letting Athos’s t-shirt fall over him. 

 

“I think this is Porthos’s,” Aramis says, from inside his tent.

 

“Yeah,” Athos says, looking down at his head-shaped stomach.

 

“Not mine,” Porthos says, squinting at it and putting his glasses back on. “Oh. Yeah it is mine. Alice brought it me from Paris.”

 

“It’s just black,” Athos says, confused. 

 

“It has the Eiffel tower on the back,” Porthos says. 

 

Athos has to take it off to have a look, and he nearly burns the waffles but just manages to save them, bare-chested. He puts them in the oven and makes a stack, lots and lots, so they can all eat together. He turns to get his shirt back on, but Aramis is wearing it. Athos rubs his arms, trying to look as cold and pathetic as possible, but Aramis just grins at him, not returning it. Athos glances over at Porthos, who is wearing a hoody, and gives him a pleading look. Porthos sighs, but takes the jumper off and hands it over. Athos wallows happily in it, finishing off breakfast making. 

  
  


###  FOUR: DECEMBER ELEVENTH

“Right. I am having sex,” Athos says, walking into the bedroom, door thumping against the wall. 

 

Porthos, the only person in there, rolls over and blinks at Athos, leaving his book open on the pillow where he was napping on it. 

 

“Huh?” Porthos says, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. 

 

“Sex. I’m having it,” Athos says. 

 

“Good for you?” Porthos says, blinking some more and snuffling a little and rubbing at his nose with his wrist. He sits up and squints at the bedside dresser for a bit. “Can you see my glasses anywhere? Or tissues?”

 

“Your glasses are usually down the furniture cushions in the living-room,” Athos says. 

 

He passes Porthos tissues, though, and moving over to the dresser reveals Porthos’s glasses, hiding half under a pillow. Athos leans over him and fishes them out. Porthos rests a hand on his bum, hums, then scoops him up and rolls him onto the bed, so he’s on top of Athos, grinning down. Then he sneezes, and gets off Athos to blow his nose.

 

“What were you telling me?” Porthos asks. “About sex? Did you sex-Sykpe Sylvie or something? Does that have a name, like sexting? Sex-pe.”

 

Porthos makes the ‘p’ pop. Athos groans and flops against the pillows, holding up Porthos’s glasses. 

 

“I didn’t have any kind of sex. I am going to have sex with you. Or Aramis, I don’t care. But you preferably because I haven’t had sex with you in ages, and I’m just going to get it over with, so that we can say we’ve done it and get on with things.”

 

“Wow. I am feeling really very seduced, here, after that flowery romantic speech and all. You’re so sexy, baby,” Porthos says, congested and sarcastic, and sneezes twice more. “I fell asleep reading and now I feel like death.”

 

“You have a cold, and only just a cold at that,” Athos says. “You are not getting out of ravishing me thoroughly just because you’re a bit snotty.”

 

“What has got into you?” Porthos asks, putting his glasses on and picking up his book. 

 

“Well clearly not you,” Athos says, in disgust, getting back up seeing as Porthos seems to not be getting with the programme. “Where’s Aramis? He’ll ravish me.”

 

“I didn’t say no, did I?” Porthos says. “I don’t know where ‘mis went, he was here snuggling before I fell asleep.”

 

“You didn’t say no, but you’re back to reading,” Athos says. “I don’t mind if you do your own thing while having me, but I think reading is a bit of a limit.”

 

“You’re really not selling this to me, you know,” Porthos says. “I was looking for a bookmark, I don’t like leaving them open, it ruins the spines.”

 

He holds one up, taken from the dresser, and puts it pointedly in to mark his page, then makes a big to-do about setting his book aside. He pats the bed, and Athos goes to sit again. Porthos wraps a warm strong arm around him and snuggles him in against his side, taking off glasses. 

 

“Why am I ravishing you?” Porthos says, around a yawn. “Mm. You smell nice, did you shower?”

 

“Yes, in preparation for my ravishing. I haven’t had sex with you in a while. Like a long while. More than a month.”

 

“Really?”

 

“You haven’t even NOTICED!?” Athos says, pulling away, a little offended about that. “Porthos!”

 

“Ok. Um, sorry?” Porthos says, looking all taken aback and befuddled. 

 

“Why didn’t you notice?” Athos asks. “Didn’t you… didn’t you miss it?”

 

“I can hardly say yes now, can I?” Porthos says. “I dunno. You know I’ve been missing you a bit, lately.”

 

“Yes, I thought you’d noticed and this might fix it,” Athos says. “Or at least help. Or at least be nice. You really haven’t noticed it’s been a while?”

 

“Guess not. It’s not really important to me. I don’t think I’ve had sex with Aramis, either. I think… with Flea, once? Since Aramis’s birthday when we did… um… that.”

 

“Not Alice? Or Sofia? Or anyone? Only once?” Athos asks. “Really?”

 

Porthos shifts uncomfortably, and gets his glasses again, putting them on and looking down at his hands. Then he looks up at Athos with that stubborn, proud tilt to his chin, and meets Athos’s eyes, his a little bright and blazing. 

 

“I ain’t ashamed of that,” Porthos says. “So what? It’s not weird. People have different things, different amounts they need of things.”

 

“How come I never noticed that? Have you always not had much sex with me?”

 

“I don’t fucking know,” Porthos says, losing his patience. “It’s never been a thing before! I don’t exactly keep a bloody diary, okay? It’s never been a problem with us three, who gets what where at what time. I thought you got what you wanted from me, clearly not.”

 

“No. No! I’m just surprised. I do get what I want. I was worried you weren’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel silly, or defensive, or something,” Athos says, leaning back into Porthos and wrapping him tight in his arms, pressing kisses to his cheek and neck and hair, getting his ear too. “I love you something silly, I don’t care if you want it every second, or just once a year, or never. It doesn’t matter to me.”

 

“Yeah. That was stupid of you,” Porthos grumbles, holding onto Athos just a little bit too tight, his glasses pressing into Athos’s shoulder. 

 

“Sorry, I’m so sorry. I meant to make you feel wanted, not unwanted,” Athos says, stroking his hair. “I do want you. Very much. In whatever way that means.”

 

“I’m not against the ravishing plan,” Porthos says. “Though not currently feeling it.”

 

Athos laughs, and rubs between Porthos’s shoulder blades. He shifts so he’s straddling Porthos’s lap, and holds Porthos close, rubbing slowly up and down his back, gradually beginning to linger in the places he knows Porthos like. He knows Porthos’s body well, and can feel it beginning to respond to him, as he inches his hands under the t-shirt, over Porthos’s warm skin, fingers finding the spots across his ribs and sides, around his collar, under his ear. He pulls back a little and presses kisses to Porthos’s forehead, his eyelids, his nose, his lips. He shuts his eyes and cradles Porthos’s head, thumbs soothing, pressing down into Porthos’s lap. 

 

“Now I’m feeling it,” Porthos says, looking up, lips parted, a little wet. 

 

“I always was crap with words,” Athos says. 

 

“Ironically, given your profession.”

 

“What, you want me to write to you to seduce you?”

 

Porthos ducks his head, flushing suddenly hot up his neck and into his cheeks. Athos hums and gets hold of Porthos’s t-shirt, pulling it up, feeling as he goes again, up over Porthos’s shoulders and head, and Porthos pops out, looking up again. He looks a tiny bit defiant, a tiny bit like he thinks he’s got away with that. Athos touches his cheek, smiling. 

 

“I will write you love letters,” Athos says. “Every week. Every day. I will leave them in little lilac envelopes, and spritz them with scent, and seal them with a kiss. Words like that, I can do. I want to write to you.”

 

“Yes,” Porthos says. 

 

“Dirty things, too. Like Joyce to his wife.”

 

“Mm. Like what?” Porthos asks, head resting trustingly in Athos’s hands, against his palms, hair soft and skin soft and all of him warm. 

 

“What did Joyce write? He seemed to have a thing about farting.”

 

Porthos laughs, leaning back against the pillows, pulling Athos with him so Athos sprawls over him. Athos grins, happy to be spread over so much skin. He sits back up, though, to get his shirt off. He undoes his trousers and sits, thumbing Porthos’s nipple, until Porthos looks up. 

 

“Can I have all your clothes?” Athos asks. “Strip you naked, and admire all of you, from the soles of your feet to your glorious thighs and the thick hot crease between thigh and belly?”

 

“Press poetry into me,” Porthos says, breathing deeply, Athos rising and falling a little on his stomach. 

 

Athos gets off and wriggles out of his trousers, kicking them and his pants off, and bending, struggling to get his socks off. He has to hop about a bit, and finally sits on the side of the bed to Porthos’s laughter, Porthos’s hand around his hip. He twists and tugs Porthos’s sweats down, running his hand over Porthos’s thigh, thumb pressing into the crease he likes, knuckles against the flesh and muscle of Porthos’s thigh. Porthos isn’t wearing pants. Thankfully, because Athos is sure that there is nothing less sexy than getting out of clothes. 

 

“I would tell you, in my letters, about how much I like it here,” Athos says, using his free hand to press Porthos’s legs apart. “Between your thighs like this, both my hands full of you. The hot of you. I would tell you how I imagine licking you, where my thumb is now, and then down, spreading you, my mouth on your little cock.”

 

“Less of the little,” Porthos mutters, getting up on his elbows, looking down at himself. 

 

He is little. Even years on Testosterone hasn’t given him a massive cock, it’s never going to. Athos loves the dildo Porthos has, and the straps that wrap around his thighs, accentuating their thickness, the broadness of him, the power. But Athos loves this, too, the heat of him, the folds and wiry curly hair and smell of him, his little cock filling with blood and pulsing, waiting for Athos’s tongue. Athos doesn’t bother to say all of that, he already has and Porthos knows it, and Porthos likes his little cock, too. Instead he demonstrates, lips and tongue gentle still, arousing Porthos, making him moan, still holding his thighs. Porthos gulps and flops back on the pillow, spreading his legs wider, as Athos kisses and licks, moving up to Porthos’s stomach, his nipples, the scar tissue on his chest, his collar bone. Athos sets about sucking, pressing his tongue to Porthos’s skin, making his mark there. Porthos gets a hand into his hair and kneads, waiting for him to kiss up his neck, to his lips. 

 

“What else?” Porthos asks. “What else would you write?”

 

“About your cock hot and wet against my thigh, and thinking about it while I rock to get off on my own. In my office,” Athos says. Porthos’s breath catches and Athos grins. “Aramis might walk in any moment, or you. Might find me there, my cock in my hand, thinking about you against my thigh, hard and wet.”

 

Porthos breathes shakily, and shifts his hips against Athos’s hip and thigh. Athos rubs his arm and kisses him again, gentler, slowly, taking and pressing and giving. Lingering until his lips feel swollen. 

 

“Am I.. buggering you then?” Porthos asks, breathless, body taut. 

 

“No. I think I want to do this, for you, like this,” Athos says. “My mouth on you, on your cock. I like that. Holding your thighs, my head buried between your legs. I like that.”

 

“Ok then. Tell me, though. About the letters.”

 

“If I do, what will I write?” 

 

“You don’t seem to have trouble thinking of dirty things,” Porthos says. 

 

“Mm. No. Not when it comes to you. Spread under me, skin prickling with sweat against mine, slick between us. Not any trouble at all. What else would I write? I would tell you about kissing your scars, about the sensitive skin under them, do you know? shall I show you?”

 

“Show me.”

 

Athos does, shifting back down Porthos’s body, rubbing a thumb over the place he means and then kissing, licking, sucking another bruise there. 

 

“This, here, this little crease under the weight of your muscle, just under the scarring,” Athos whispers, breath against the skin. “And I would tell you how I think about you, my fingers in your mouth, while I do it.”

 

“Show me,” Porthos says. 

 

Athos reaches up and shows him, pressing a thumb to his lip, two fingers pushed in for Porthos to suck, whispering and tickling and kissing against the skin, Porthos’s nipples, back to his collar bone. 

 

“What are you gonna do with them fingers?” Porthos asks. 

 

“In the letter?” Athos asks, and Porthos nods, eyes wide, on Athos, hand clenching against Athos’s shoulder. “I would tell you about how wet they are, now, and how I can imagine using them to spread your arse cheeks, to find that crease, that smell, that taste. Shall I show you?”

 

“Uh-uh. I want to come,” Porthos says. 

 

“Then I would write about sucking a bruise into your thigh, I love your thighs,” Athos says, and kisses him, showing him with his hands where he means, pressing and kneading until they’re done kissing, then putting his mouth down there, to the spot he’s just shown, sucking another bruise. 

 

Porthos’s breathing is hard, so Athos moves back to his cock, next, sucking and licking with a little more force, using his thumb against Porthos’s folds, gently, slick. He hums, and Porthos yelps, and clutches Athos’s head, knees coming sharply together while he orgasms. Athos stills, gentling his tongue to almost nothing. Porthos’s thighs relax and Athos presses a kiss, then to his thigh, to his belly, lying sprawled over him, stroking his chest and arm and cheek while he comes back down. Porthos wraps a hand around Athos’s cock, and grins, eyes heavy. 

 

“Don’t want you to fuck me, but what about between me thighs? That you love so much,” Porthos says, grin widening to something quite wicked. Athos moans. 

 

Porthos flops over onto his front and presses his thighs together, head sideways, cheek pressed against his hand. His thighs are slick, and Athos slides between them easily. Porthos shudders, and Athos leans up over him, thrusting, pushing. It’s warm, and slippery, and good. Athos shivers, sweat breaking out over his shoulders, and starts up a rhythm, bending to press kisses to Porthos’s shoulders, then he’s coming. He shudders and stills, then flops over Porthos’s back with a harsh huff of breath. Porthos turns carefully, shifting until Athos is in his arms, so they’re face to face. 

 

“I will write to you of that, of feeling that small hairs against myself, of your strength, of the feel of the muscle and fat. I will write to you of how much it made me hard and how hard I came. And how wonderful it was to have you wet around,” Athos says. “And, of how much I love you, of how dear you are to me. How incredibly dear. I wouldn’t leave you for anything, Porthos. Not for anything in the world.”

 

“No, I know,” Porthos says. “I know.”

 

Athos kisses him again and snuggles closer. 

 

“Hey! Did you two have sex without me? I only went to get milk!” Aramis says, from the doorway. 

 

Porthos starts a little, then laughs, burying his face in Athos’s hair. Athos holds out an arm. 

 

“C’mere,” he mutters, sleepy now. “I’ll get you off.”

 

“What a wonderful offer,” Aramis huffs, coming to flop down behind Athos. 

 

“He’s good at that today,” Porthos says. “Makes up for it though.”

 

Aramis wraps himself around Athos, and they all lie there like that for a while. It’s sticky now, though, and a bit gross. Porthos never cares, but Athos gets up and goes to shower, and Aramis follows. He’s halfway through fulfilling his promise when Porthos comes and joins them. 

 

### 

###  FIVE: DECEMBER THIRTEENTH

 

Athos watches as Porthos, in a tangle of wool and grumpiness heaves himself out of the armchair and trips over to the sofa to land heavily next to Aramis. It makes Aramis bounce, which makes him giggle and look up from his book. He picks a bit of wool out of Porthos’s hair and boops his nose. 

 

“Get off. Help me?” Porthos says, thrusting his latest crochet project at Aramis. 

 

“What’ve you done this time, babe?” Aramis asks, accepting it and starting to untangle the stray wool from around it, examining the pattern. 

 

“How should I now? Tiny little bloody needle. Should’ve stuck with the nice pattern you showed me. This one’s from the internet and I dunno what half of it means.”

 

Athos stealthily steals Porthos chair, with his mug of coffee, and watches Aramis putting Porthos’s sewing to rights. Porthos waves him away when he tries to hand it back, so Aramis finishes the snowflake off, fingers quick and agile. Porthos looks across at Athos and grins widely. Athos, from experience, puts his coffee safely aside. Which is good, because a moment later Porthos has flung himself into Athos’s arms, squashing him, big body pushing all the air out of him. Athos wheezes, and shoves and pushes until Porthos is sat on his thighs instead of his stomach. 

 

“Shouldn’t slouch so much,” Porthos says comfortably, kicking his legs up over the arm of the chair, resting his head next to Athos’s, grinning still. 

 

“Do we really need more snowflakes?” Athos asks.

 

“This one is a penguin pattern. They’re kissing penguins, and they’re gay,” Porthos says. “So yes.”

 

“How do you know they’re gay?” Aramis asks.

 

“I made them, didn’t I?” Porthos says. 

 

“I think  _ this _ one is a lady penguin, actually,” Aramis says. “The one I’m doing here.”

 

“Well that’s okay because the one I did that it’s kissing is also a lady penguin,” Porthos says. 

 

“I’ll do a lady and a man penguin next,” Aramis says. 

 

“That’s okay, too. They can be trans penguins.”

 

“Then I’ll do-”

 

“They’ll be bisexual penguins,” Porthos says. 

 

“But-”

 

“Pan,” Porthos says. “And asexual. Oh! Let’s put some non-binary ones in there, too.”

 

Athos laughs, reclaiming his coffee, thighs going slowly dead. Aramis beams happily at Porthos and crochets some trans bi pan nb penguins for him in a happy little queer doily. When he’s finished Porthos’s, he gets up and fetches his own craft project, a quilted blanket in an intricate pattern that he’s making for Louis junior. All his other kids have them, and he says just because he’s not raising this one or being ‘Dad’ doesn’t mean Louis doesn’t need a quilt. Porthos hums Christmas carols and steals Athos’s coffee, and Athos texts Sylvie for a bit. He’s been with her since Sunday, and only got home half an hour ago, but he already vaguely misses her. Porthos peers at the screen of the phone and reads along. 

 

“Don’t,” Porthos says, when Athos types an ‘I miss you’. “Make it more romantic-y. Poetic like.”

 

Athos hits send, and then hits Porthos’s chest lightly, setting Porthos laughing. 

 

“I’ll send what I like. If you want to send her things, text her yourself,” Athos says. 

 

“Maybe I will do that,” Porthos says, but shows no signs of getting up and finding his phone. 

 

When Athos tips the screen a little, Porthos obediently looks away and leaves him in peace to send whatever he likes. He seems content enough that Athos’s attention isn’t on him, but Athos checks now and then just to be sure. His legs are completely asleep by now and he’s sort of hoping Porthos will get up and go do something else, other than singing gently out of tune in Athos’s ear. 

 

“Let’s go to Christmas carols, this year,” Porthos says. “In a church or something.”

 

“Because we’re all big Christmas celebrators,” Aramis says from the sofa, irritably. 

 

“Doesn’t matter, the music’s nice,” Porthos says. 

 

He sets up a cheerful ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ and Athos laughs, recording it on his phone. 

 

“Stop with the christmas songs already!” Aramis says, getting up. “I’m going to make coffee.”

 

He strides out, leaving the half finished quilt spread over the sofa, the hoop falling toward the floor, threads trailing. 

 

Porthos gets up off Athos, and Athos’s legs go pins-and-needles. He jumps up after Porthos and yelps and wriggles as feeling comes back, which makes Porthos laugh and scoop him up, swinging him around. He settles by the window, keeping Athos in his arms, sighing. 

 

“Do you want to have sex on the sofa?” Athos asks, enjoying Porthos’s muscles straining to hold him up. 

 

“No. Wouldn’t mind going for a run, though,” Porthos says. “I’m a bit restless now.”

 

“I hate running,” Athos says with a dramatic groan, going limp in Porthos’s arms. 

 

“We can have sweaty post-run adrenaline sex afterwards,” Porthor weedles. 

 

“Why don’t you and Aramis run, and then when you get back I’ll have sweaty sex with both you?” Athos suggests. 

 

Porthos grumbles wordlessly, settling into morose silence. Athos wiggles himself free and goes back to his phone. If he’s not getting sex, he’ll text Sylvie instead. 

 

“Too dark for a run, really,” Porthos says, gloomily. “Too dark for anything. I haven’t seen the sun all week, I’m up before it rises and not home till it sets.”

 

“You don’t work in a concrete box,” Athos says. 

 

“Feels like I haven’t seen the sun, then,” Porthos says. “Anyway, staff room has no windows.”

 

“You spend all your time in the art room, which is all windows,” Athos says. 

 

“I’m gonna stab you with a crochet hook if you don’t let me be grouchy,” Porthos says. 

 

Athos laughs, but finds the crochet hook and sits on it just in case. Which means he’s on the sofa, which means Porthos comes and flops down and puts his head on Athos’s just-reawoken thigh, setting to work sending it back to sleep. 

 

“Ow.”

 

“What?” Athos asks. 

 

“I lay on Aramis’s needle.”

 

“And on my quilt!” Aramis exclaims, bursting into the room. 

 

Porthos startles, and leaps off the sofa, glowering at Aramis. Athos sneaks out and leaves them to their argument. It’s December, and Aramis is always home, and Porthos is always home because he just always is, and they must be getting on each others’ nerves. Athos gets himself some dinner and goes to sit in the office, Skyping Sylvie. Aramis comes creeping in an hour later, when Athos is writing and eating Cheerios. 

 

“I upset Porthos,” he says abruptly, then walks back out again. Then he comes back in. “He’s in the bedroom. I’m going for a walk. We need milk.”

 

“Can you get cookies and ice cream, too?” Athos asks. 

 

Aramis nods. Athos finishes up his paragraph and heads across to their bedroom. Porthos is curled on the bed, with a pillow over his head. Athos sits beside him and rubs his shoulders until he emerges, looking grumpy and tired. 

 

“Fucking Aramis,” Porthos says. 

 

“Um,” Athos says. 

 

“I hate work,” Porthos says. 

 

“One more week after this and you’re done,” Athos says. 

 

“Next week is christmas week,” Porthos says. “I love christmas week. We do loads of fun things. I get my classes to make little visual presentations about important traditions for them. I have a lot of Muslim kids in two of my classes, so we’ve been doing a bit of work on Islamic art, this term, and we’re wrapping up next week with projects on finding images and depictions of important dates and things, and they’ve all been producing their own, and some of the Christian kids have been doing Christmassy things but, like, in conversation with Islam, if that makes sense.”

 

“It does, and that’s nice,” Athos says. 

 

“Didn’t forget you guys, either,” Porthos says. “When it was Yom Kippur we talked about that and the influence it has on art and the history of it in art. And one of my older classes is doing a project about language and writing in art, and one kid did a thing about the Sarajevo Haggdah and another did a thing about comics and graphic art, and depictions of Jewish culture and people in them.”

 

“It sounds like it hasn’t been a terrible term.”

 

“It’s been long. And Christmas is a really hard time for a lot of my kids. They’re not from rich families. I try to make the lessons so they’re not just, you know. Isn’t family wonderful and presents and big meals and yay! Look at all these nice things you don’t have and won’t get!” Porthos says. “It’s sad, though. We make posters for things like gift exchanges and community meals to put up around school, and we do things like making picture frames and making things to give as gifts, and… it’s just sad.”

 

“Do you want a big family christmas?” Athos asks. 

 

Porthos is silent for a while, then he sighs, pulling away from Athos and rolling onto his back. 

 

“I don’t know. I mean, no, obviously, because I don’t celebrate and none of you do. Family is important, though. Maybe we could do a family thing in the holidays, without it being Christmassy? You and Connie will be doing Hanukkah, so maybe lunch? So you two have evenings free still.”

 

“We can do that. A big family lunch, where we invite everyone. We do it every month,” Athos says. 

 

“I know. I know, okay? I’m being silly. I am aware! I just want affirmation! I am allowed to want that,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yes, okay. Affirmation lunch. Shall we call it that?” Athos says. Porthos snorts, and rolls back over to try and smother Athos with a cushion. 

 

Porthos doesn’t cheer up much, but he does get a little happier when Athos makes him some pasta and pesto with more cheese than pasta almost. He also gets a little happier when Athos suggests they watch a Christmas movie. He picks Arthur Christmas and brings down his duvet and they snuggle on the sofa with hot chocolate and snacks. Porthos says he wants slippers like Arthur’s, with flashing noses, so Athos has a look on Amazon and finds penguin slippers. They don’t flash, but they buy them anyway, a pair each for them and Aramis. 

  
  


###  SIX: DECEMBER SIXTEENTH

 

Athos is late. Or he’s going to be. He cycles harder. He should have just brought the car. It’s not hugely important to be on time, he supposes, but it’s lunch with Sylvie and she’s only got limited time on her break from work. He went back home last night before she got in from work, and she’d left before he was awake, so he hasn’t really seen her since Wednesday, and even then it was briefly in the evening. He only woke up about twenty minutes ago. His hair’s still wet from the shower and it freezing into clumps where it’s sticking out from his woolly hat and helmet. He nearly skids through a red light, but Porthos luckily did his breaks recently and he manages to stop. He nearly goes over the handlebars, but not quite. Then he’s off again, nearly hitting a car and swerving, up the hill, around the corner. 

 

He’s only five minutes late, and Sylvie doesn’t mind at all. She laughs at how breathless and sweaty he is and gets him water and takes a photo and laughs some more, but she doesn’t mind in the slightest. She just ordered for him, while she waited, and got a coffee. They’re just having fish and chips in the pub near her work, but it’s a date and it’s good fish and chips and the pub has excellent coffee. Athos gets a glass of wine, too, to go with his meal. His breathing evens out and he pulls most of his layers on that he took off, and smiles across the table at Sylvie, who’s still looking very amused. 

 

“Hi,” he says. 

 

“You know I don’t mind you being a little late,” she says, laughing. 

 

“I mind,” he says. Which is very romantic. Porthos would approve. “Porthos gets annoyed when I’m late.”

 

“I am not Porthos,” Sylvie says, looking a little affronted. 

 

“No,” he says, as admiringly of their differences as he can be. 

 

“He invited me to lunch, you know. On the twenty seventh,” Sylvie says. “Is it a Christmas thing? He wasn’t very good on details.”

 

“It’s a lunch of affirmation,” Athos says, laughing, and then has to explain. Or explain part of it, anyway. The bits Porthos is open about. Wanting to affirm love and affection and connections, and wanting to do something with family. “Enough about Porthos, though.How did the matinee go?”

 

“It was good, the kids loved it. I tripped over and nearly fell off stage, which they also loved. I like doing panto, but it’s so tiring and we don’t do our last performance until the twenty fourth,” Sylvie says. 

 

“You have three weeks off, then?”

 

“Yes. I’m going to visit my mother, and I’m going to sleep a lot, and I’m going to come and be fed by Porthos.”

 

“Good plan,” Athos says, reaching over to take her hand. 

 

Their lunch comes, and they’re quiet as they eat, both hungry. After lunch Sylvie sits and chats for a bit, but then has to rush back for an afternoon rehearsal. It’s already four o’clock, so Athos cycles home and gets the car, going to pick Porthos up from school on a bit of a whim, happy and excited from spending time with Sylvie. 

 

Porthos looks surprised but not displeased to see him. They go to the gym, and play tennis on the indoor courts for an hour, which Athos is much better at. He enjoys beating Porthos soundly, because at most other sports Porthos wins. It’s pleasing, to watch Porthos running for the ball. He’s quick, and he has good hand eye coordination, and usually correctly predicts where the ball will be, he’s just not much good at hitting it. It spins and bounces and flies violently past Athos’s ear hitting the back wall, and Porthos roars with laughter, sweating and happy to be losing, not caring at all. Athos keeps out of the way when he catches a determined look in Porthos’s eyes, so manages not to get hit by the more violent thwacks. 

 

“I need a shower,” Porthos says, when they’ve given back the rackets and balls. “Thanks for that, it’s good to take a bit of aggression out, on a Friday.”

 

“I’ve learnt to dodge the ball when you do that, so I’m happy to serve,” Athos says. 

 

“Serve. He he. That’s a pun.”

 

“So it is.”

 

Athos links their arms, and they go to shower. Athos’s shower goes too cold, so he shares Porthos’s, as they’re alone in the changing room. And gets thoroughly snogged under the spray, Porthos’s big hands getting everywhere. Athos pulls away before they get in trouble for being indecent, but Porthos grabs hold of his arm to keep him still, fingers strong but gentle. Athos feels something in his hair, then Porthos rubs and massages. He washes Athos’s hair, humming, rinsing with a hand against Athos’s forehead to keep the suds out of his eyes. 

 

“Lunch with Sylvie, and I get my hair washed,” Athos says, leaning back into Porthos. “Hedonistic day.”

 

“You had lunch with her? How did the matinee go?” Porthos asks. 

 

“Fine. She was happy with it.”

 

“I do like her, you know. I worry you think I don’t, because of things I’ve said. Anyway, even if I didn’t, I can see that you do and how much you do. And how much she likes you,” Porthos says. 

 

“I know,” Athos says. 

 

Porthos starts kissing his neck, and Athos gets out before Porthos can get them in trouble for being indecent. Porthos lets him go get dressed this time, though he stays under the shower a bit himself, singing loudly. Athos dries his hair with the dryer until Porthos is ready. It’s almost entirely dry by the time Porthos comes over fully dressed and ready to go. He ties it up and then takes Porthos’s hand, heading back for the car. They pick Aramis up from work on their way home, he’s been at Agnes’s sulking so it’s nice to get him, and get an Indian takeaway. Aramis falls asleep, and they leave him to nap when they get in, settling in the living-room. 

 

He comes in ten minutes later, bad tempered at being left in the car, which makes Porthos laugh and tackle him to the sofa for a cuddle. He gets thoroughly squashed under Porthos, leaving Athos to go get their dinner from the oven where it’s keeping warm. When he gets back Porthos is lying on his back, and Aramis is perched on Porthos’s stomach. Athos puts the food on the coffee table and goes back to his armchair with his own plate, leaving them to sort out between them who sits on who. 

 

“I missed you yesterday” Porthos says. “Good to have you home, finally.”

 

“You did?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Obviously,” Porthos says, sitting up and tipping Aramis to the floor, ruffling his hair. “Always miss you when you bugger off in a strop.”

 

“It was a very refined, dignified strop,” Aramis says, leaning forward for food, happy to sit on the floor. 

 

Athos watches him. Cross legged, enthusiastic about the food, making happy sounds about the taste as he tries different things, he seems very young. He’s not, though he is younger than either of them. He notices Athos looking and glances up, checking Athos doesn’t want anything. Athos smiles, soft and affectionate. Aramis looks pleased, ducking his head a little, cheeks flushing ever so slightly. 

 

###  SEVEN: DECEMBER NINETEENTH

Athos is at home, in the office, getting work done for once. No one else is here, as it’s lunch time, and the house is quiet. He’s pretty sure it’s Monday, judging by the complaining noises Porthos made getting up this morning, and how relatively un-cheerful Aramis was when he too had to get out of bed. Aramis is usually a morning person, and he loves his job, and usually he’ll be up and about and chattering about kittens and puppies and happy little birds. Or some such. Not Mondays though. So it’s probably Monday. Athos thinks about that for a while, and goes to get some lunch. It’s only twelve, so technically he should work for another hour first, but it’s Monday. He boils the kettle and checks the fridge to see if anyone ground some coffee beans this morning. There’s a little lunchbox of coffee with his name and a smiley on it, in Aramis’s fancy curly script. Athos dumps all of it in the pot and watches the kettle boil, then stares into the fridge. 

 

He’s gazing at the lunchbox full of cheeses, which is probably mostly empty unless someone filled it back up after Porthos ate his way through two packets of crackers and plates of the stuff a few evenings ago, when the front door opens and there are voices in the hall. Athos gets out the cheese box and wanders through to have a look. No one should be home. Aramis is working until tomorrow, then finishing for Christmas, and Porthos is working till Friday before break. It’s Porthos, though, and a woman who looks small but that’s probably just because she’s next to Porthos, and Porthos is in his big leather jacket, and a scarf, and he’s shaking water out of his hair. The woman’s trying to get Porthos’s coat off him, it’s caught on his elbow and he’s not helping, and berating him about being wet. It is raining, though, so that seems a little unfair, Athos thinks, and goes to help. 

 

“Hullo,” Porthos says, noticing Athos, cutting the woman off. When Athos is close enough Porthos tips against him, resting his head on Athos’s shoulder, sighing happily. The coat finally slides off his elbow, and the woman stumbles into the wall. 

 

“You’re getting me wet,” Athos says, pushing at him. “And your coat tried to kill your friend.”

 

“What?” Porthos says, straightening and turning to the woman, reaching out to hold her elbow, patting her down. 

 

“I’m fine, get off me,” She says. “Can I hang this monstrosity somewhere? It’s getting everything wet. Do you have towels? Take your shoes off, and that scarf it’s soaking. Here, I’ll help, sit on the stairs no don’t bend down!”

 

Porthos sits on the stairs and she takes off his shoes and his scarf. Athos watches, still clutching the cheese box. Porthos looks up at him with a grin, eyes tracking to the box. 

 

“That’s empty, that is,” he says. 

 

“So why was it in the refrigerator?” Athos says. 

 

“To remind me to fill it up,” Porthos says. “Aren’t you gonna ask why I’m home? It’s Monday, you know. Not the weekend anymore.”

 

“I know. I worked it out from your delightful mood this morning,” Athos says. “No, I don’t think I will ask.”

 

His lips twitch with amusement at Porthos’s disappointment over that. He reaches out and rubs a hand over Porthos’s hair, getting some more of the water out. He really does need a towel, and his friend isn’t terribly dry either. 

 

“Did you swim here?” Athos asks, going to put the lunchbox down and then on to the laundry room, off the kitchen. He finds three towels in the dryer, still warm, and takes them back out. He drops one over Porthos’s head and hands the other two to the woman. 

 

“Didn’t swim,” Porthos says. “It’s dark. Elodie, I’m gonna just nap here, okay?”

 

“No, no! You are not falling asleep on the fucking stairs again! Get up!” the woman says, shoving the towels back at Athos and tugging the one off Porthos, hauling on his arm until he lumbers up to his feet. 

 

“You fell asleep in the stairwell again?” Athos asks, trying not to laugh. “Porthos!”

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Porthos says. “No need for her to snap at me and drag me home. Neither of us even drove in so we had to get the bus! And now I’m soaked.”

 

“Your friend is right, no more napping on stairs. Come here,” Athos says. 

 

There’s only one reason Porthos falls asleep on stairs. Porthos is good at sleeping, and could probably bed down and sleep anywhere, but he doesn’t sleep at work. Porthos shakes his friend off and comes obediently over, giving Athos a sheepish look. He already knows. Athos sighs, but reaches up, brushing the wet hair off Porthos’s face, pressing a hand to his forehead. Which is, of course, cold from the rain. Athos checks his cheek, warmer, and then cups the back of his neck, sliding a hand down into the neck of his jumper and resting it there. 

 

“Taking a temperature like that is stupid,” Porthos says. “You can’t tell anything.”

 

“Shall I find Aramis’s cat thermometer?” Athos threatens. 

 

“Fuck off,” Porthos says. “The nurse at school took it. She sent me home. I have classes, Athos. They’re doing presentations, some of them were nervous. It’s Christmas week! I need to be there.”

 

“You have a fever of 48.5 degrees,” Porthos’s friend snaps. “You’re not allowed to be in school. If anything, you should be in the fucking hospital. You nearly tipped down twelve flights of stairs Porthos. And nearly took me with you.”

 

Porthos straightens and pulls away from Athos’s hands, turning, hands patting over his friend again. He thinks to introduce her, while he does it- Elodie, the woman he’s been going on dates with. 

 

”I’m fine,” Elodie says. “Stop with the fussing. I was just trying to make a point.”

 

“Point made,” Porthos says. “No more sleeping on stairs.”

 

“Do you have a bed?”

 

“‘bviously,” Porthos mutters, either running out of energy or getting grouchy. 

 

“Are you staying?” Athos asks. 

 

“I might as well, now,” Elodie says. “I mean, I should technically go back, but  _ I’m _ not so daft as to turn my nose up at a free day off.”

 

Athos takes Porthos’s elbow and leads him to the downstairs spare room. It has an ensuite and is the fancy one they usually actually use for guests. Athos knows that Aramis stocks the bathroom down here with a first aid kit. He goes through and gets a thermometer and some paracetamol, and when he comes back out Elodie is struggling to get Porthos out of his clothes. 

 

“He never helps,” Athos says, going to help. “Bit useless, aren’t you?”

 

“Mm,” Porthos agrees. 

 

Athos has practise, and can get Porthos naked easily. He leave him with his boxers, and Elodie rubs his hair vigorously with a towel, then covers the pillows on the bed with another dry towel and turns down the duvet. Porthos lies on the bed, curls up, and falls asleep. 

 

“Did you want to sit with him?” Athos asks. 

 

“No. I’ve slept with him twice, and I mean sex,” Elodie says, sounding a little hysterical. 

 

“Kitchen, then. I have coffee and was just about to make lunch. Though we have no cheese, apparently Porthos has eaten every scrap,” Athos says.  

 

Athos makes them chicken salad wraps, instead, and big mugs of coffee. They take everything through to the dining room. Elodie takes a sip and sighs, smiling. Athos likes her. He eats his lunch and thinks about how he can procrastinate this afternoon. Elodie is quiet company for a while, eating and drinking in silence, texting someone, looking around. When she’s finished she gets up and puts her plate in the sink, then takes Athos’s too, and washes them both up. Then she comes back and leans against the table. 

 

“He has a high normal temp,” Athos says. “He’s fine. He’ll probably just sleep it off and be back to normal tomorrow. It’s just this cold that’s coming and going.”

 

“I’m not worried about him, not really. Though I did think he was fainting, when we nearly went down the stairs,” Elodie says. 

 

“Do you want to stay, this afternoon? I have work, so I’ll be using the office upstairs, but feel free to sit with him, or make yourself at home in here, or the living-room,” Athos says. 

 

“Thanks. I brought some work with me, I’ll get that done while he sleeps. If it’s not too much trouble, staying?”

 

“Not at all, there are usually lots of people around the house. Help yourself to food and coffee and anything. The TV’s fairly self explanatory. There’s a bathroom off the room Porthos is in, and one upstairs, first door on the right. Um,” Athos says, looking around. 

 

Elodie waves him away, and he tops up his coffee and goes. He checks on Porthos before retreating to the office, but he’s still curled up snoring and fast asleep. Hopefully he’ll stay that way for a good while. Athos puts it out of his mind and focusses on work, half listening to the sounds of Elodie downstairs. Eventually they filter out, and he puts his music and headphones on. He works for three hours, then goes for more coffee, seeing Elodie in the living-room with a laptop but leaving her to it. Then he works most of the evening, without stopping, hitting a good streak. He finishes up at six, and heads downstairs to see about dinner. Aramis will be home soon. Maybe he’ll bring something. Athos calls him to ask him to get cheese as well. 

 

“Remember to check it,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah yeah,” Aramis says. “It’s Porthos who forgets.”

 

“Oh, he came home earlier. He has a fever. His Elodie brought him,” Athos says. 

 

“You’ve met her?” Aramis says, focus suddenly entirely on Athos. “What’s she like? Is she nice?”

 

“Yeah. Quiet, very nice,” Athos says. “She told him off for sleeping on stairs, and for getting wet, and for going in with a fever, and for lots of things. She’s definitely a teacher.”

 

“She has a kid,” Aramis says. “Porthos said remember? They took her swimming once as a date.”

 

“I forgot,” Athos says. “That makes sense.”

 

“Is Porthos asleep?”

 

Athos listens, and hears voices downstairs. It might be the TV, but he thinks one is Porthos. 

 

“I think he’s up,” Athos says. 

 

“I’ll get ice cream,” Aramis says. “Which I will also check, don’t worry.”

 

Athos makes some pasta, with sauce, which they can turn into pasta bake when Aramis brings the cheese. Porthos is in the living-room with Elodie, but Athos doesn’t go through. He’s just adding the sauce to the oven dish when Elodie comes in with an empty glass, an empty crisp packet, a handful of orange peel, and a packet of biscuits. 

 

“He didn’t eat all the biscuits?” Athos asks. 

 

“Hey!” Porthos calls, and coughs. 

 

“His throat hurt after the crisps,” Elodie says, laughing. 

 

“Oi!” Porthos calls, still coughing, and lumbers through. “Stop disparaging me, guys. I’m a growing boy, I need plenty of good things to eat. Oh good, dinner! Yum. Um, no cheese, Gromit.”

 

“Aramis is bringing some,” Athos says. “He should be home now-ish. How’s your fever?”

 

“Cooking me nicely,” Porthos says. “I dunno. Fine, I think. Don’t think it’s gone up.”

 

“It will, it’s evening,” Athos says. “Do you want to stay for food, Elodie?”

 

“No,” Porthos says, quickly. “No. Um, no. Maybe meet Aramis not quite yet. Maybe don’t meet Athos yet, either, you can pretend you haven’t met each other, yeah? Oh god, he’s gonna be home any minute! El, you have to go.”

 

“I do. My mother has Marie today, but it’s five thirty so I should get back anyway,” Elodie says. “Porthos, hey. It’s alright. Whatever it is, it’s fine.”

 

Porthos nods, calming a little. Athos could tell her he’s just fussing and being a big dope, that he’s not actually worried or whatever. He doesn’t, though, he turns away so she can kiss him or whatever without an audience, and that’s when Aramis gets back. He bursts into the kitchen and lets out a happy whoop. Athos turns in time to see him fling his arms around Porthos and Elodie, Tesco bag thumping against Porthos’s back. Athos saves the bag and adds the cheese to the pasta, while Aramis asks Elodie a hundred and one questions. 

 

“Aramis, shut up or I’ll strangle you with your own bollocks,” Porthos growls. 

 

It just makes Aramis laugh and start in on stories. Porthos groans, and comes to stand next to Athos. Then he smiles. 

 

“Watch this, eh?” Porthos whispers. 

 

Athos turns. Elodie looks slightly irritated, and she’s watching Aramis. Aramis is still talking. It isn’t unusual for Aramis to get slapped by people for his over enthusiasm. It turns to thoughtlessness now and then. Elodie doesn’t seem the sort, though. Athos watches. Elodie waits for a momentary break, then straightens, raising a hand slightly, catching Aramis’s attention. She has three fingers held up and they go down one by one, slowly, as Aramis trails off to silence. 

 

“Thank you,” Elodie says. “That’s better.”

 

“Oh,” Aramis says, sadly. 

 

“That almost never works with my class,” Elodie says. “Porthos? I’ll see you at school  _ when you are better _ .”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, also sadly. “I might miss Christmas week.”

 

“Come in for Friday assembly,” Elodie says, coming over to rest a hand on Porthos’s stomach, smiling up at him, her other hand touching his cheek. “Just come sing with us, and listen to end of term things.”

 

“That might be nice,” Porthos says. “I’ll do that. Hopefully I’ll be better by tomorrow, though.”

 

“At least take tomorrow off,” Elodie says. “Rest. I know it’s the last week, but I saw you today, du Vallon.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, wincing. “Ok. Wednesday, then.”

 

“Wednesday if you are better. And you are still welcome, if you’re better, to light the first candle with Marie and I,” Elodie says. 

 

“Yeah. Athos is doing it with Constance, this year. Um, I’ll think about that,” Porthos says .

 

Elodie gives him a kiss, getting up onto her toes to reach, and then she leaves. Aramis comes over to Athos and hugs him, making happy little excited noises against his neck. 

 

“Oh stop,” Porthos grumbles. “That wasn’t cute.”

 

“It was adorable,” Aramis breathes, standing up straight and gazing at Porthos with wide, misty eyes. “She’s absolutely  _ lovely _ .”

 

Porthos grins, a little shy all of a sudden. He bites his lip, then grins again. 

 

“You like her?” he asks. 

 

“Oh, yes,” Aramis says. “She’s so nice to you, and she clearly likes you an awful lot, and you’re so sweet. Yes, I like her.”

 

Porthos looks worriedly at Athos, and Athos nods quickly. Porthos beams at them both and comes over to hug them. He leans into them both, sighing, resting his head on Aramis’s shoulder. Athos and Aramis both push him up to stand. 

 

“Oh no you don’t, no sleeping standing up in the kitchen,” Aramis says. “Sofa, living-room. I’ll wake you for dinner. Can I come fuss over you?”

 

“Yes,” Porthos says. 

 

They go through, leaving Athos to the quiet of the kitchen. He makes himself a cup of tea (one of the Rooibos ones of Aramis’s with no caffeine), and then sits at the table and texts Sylvie to tell her about Elodie and today’s drama. He remembers to ask her about her matinee performance, too, and wish her luck for tonight. She seems a little down about this afternoon’s performance, so he sends her a photo of the kitchen, which is covered in Porthos’s snowflakes and has penguins everywhere. Everything seems to migrate to the kitchen, throughout December.

 

“The pasta bake’s probably done,” Aramis says softly, from the doorway. “Porthos is asleep. His fever’s up a little, but it’s still under fifty.”

 

“Good,” Athos says. “Yeah, take it out if you like.”

 

“Are you going to come snuggle on the sofa with us? Or are you gonna go sit in the office and Skype Sylvie?”

 

“She’s got a performance soon,” Athos says, texting her goodbye. He puts his phone down and focusses on his family at home for the moment. “I’ll come snuggle.”

 

“I don’t think he’s feeling well,” Aramis says.

 

“He’s fine,” Athos says. “Just a bit of a fever, just needs some rest.”

 

“He has a cough, as well,” Aramis says. “And a headache, and he’s probably feeling sick.”

 

“I don’t think he is. He ate half a packet of chocolate digestives, a bag of Doritos, three clementines, and probably other things too.”

 

Aramis isn’t convinced. He serves them all big helpings of pasta and makes a quick salad to go on the side, then makes Porthos some lemon and honey and gathers things from around the house. Strepsils, cold and flu tablets, paracetamol, a couple of blankets, another thermometer (not the cat one, he assures), the microwave bear. Porthos wakes with a grunt in a mess of blankets and warmth, and bats Aramis away. He does snuggle with them after dinner, and rests his head on Aramis’s chest, letting Aramis stroke his hair and pet at him and baby him a lot, giving him sips of water and tea, checking his fever compulsively. They watch half an episode of Doctor Who then go up to bed, all quite ready for sleep. 

###  EIGHT: DECEMBER TWENTIETH

 

“Can we watch Korra and cuddle?” 

 

Athos hums in semi-agreement, focussing more on his article than Porthos. His agent got in touch to remind him he needs to send this to the paper if he wants them to give him money and publish it. Which he does. Porthos shuffles further into the office and comes to hover behind Athos, holding the back of his chair. Athos sighs and looks up. Porthos looks down at him, smiling. His cheeks are flushed and he looks feverish. 

 

“Still not feeling good?” Athos asks. Porthos grunts in reply, leaning on the back of the chair, looming closer. “I’m working. I haven’t got the day off.”

 

“‘Kay. Do you want lunch?” Porthos asks. “Making grilled cheeses.”

 

“Please, and maybe coffee if you’re boiling a kettle.”

 

“No cuddles,” Porthos says, pouting. Then he straightens, ruffling Athos’s hair. “OK. Cheese and coffee.”

 

Athos finishes his writing, getting the article to a point that he can send it in. It needs more editing, really, but it’s good enough. He has a feeling that lunch will turn into snuggling on the sofa, however strict he is about it all. He hesitates, then just sends it, deciding there’s not much point in anything else, and heads downstairs. Porthos hasn’t got as far as making food, but he has put on the kettle. He’s not in the kitchen. Athos fills the coffee pot, out and already with coffee in, and then goes to look in the living-room. Porthos is lying on the sofa, shivering. 

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says. “Didn’t feel good.”

 

“It’s ok. I’ll get you a duvet,” Athos says. “Has anyone checked your temperature today?”

 

“Did it before asking about lunch with you, it’s down a bit,” Porthos says. 

 

Athos gets the duvet from the spare room and spreads it over Porthos, perching on the edge of the sofa and stroking his forehead. He goes to make some soup, and some grilled cheese, and then he spends the afternoon cuddling. He does get his laptop and does do a little work, but mostly he just indulges Porthos wanting to snuggle. And sort of indulges himself too, really. They’re sprawled on the sofa in a mess of blankets and cushions when Aramis gets back home, and he joins them. 

###  NINE: DECEMBER TWENTY SECOND

 

Athos is lying on Sylvie’s bed, watching her dress, hoping to entice her back and talk her into calling in sick tonight. He catches her skirt as she’s passing, letting his leg fall to push the blanket away, most of him on show, sprawling invitingly, pulling her closer. She laughs and slaps at his hands, getting close enough for him to grab her bum. He grins up at her as she sits on the bed, smacking his bare chest. 

 

“Get up, you idiot. You have to go home, it’s Thursday! I have work!” She says. 

 

She kisses him, though, leaning into his hands. He takes all the advantage he can until she groans and tears herself away, jumping up and pulling on a t-shirt, glaring at him. He smiles, imitating the way Porthos does it- long and slow. He puts a little bit of Aramis-like seduction in too, and arches a bit. Sylvie bursts out laughing, bending with it. 

 

“You are a terrible person. Really horrible,” she says. “I will see you on Tuesday, okay? For your affirmalunch.”

 

“Not before then?” he groans. “I could stay here, while you work. Just stay here.”

 

“If you want to,” Sylvie says, giving an incredulous half laugh and a fond smile. “Yeah, ok. I’ll see you later, then.”

 

“Later. Have a good night. Wait, let me give you a kiss,” Athos says, sitting up, reaching for her. 

 

She comes, and he has her in his arms for a moment, her lips against his, her warmth and joy and exhilaration. He gives to her, letting himself fall back as she presses, letting her take everything. She laughs again, fingers against his cheek, breath a little hard, then she’s up and gone, calling a last goodbye, the front door shutting. Athos flops back and grins at the ceiling. He’s rubbing his fingers over his stomach, thinking about her, when his phone rings. He answers it lazily, spotting Porthos’s name, with a long happy hum. 

 

“Where they fuck is everyone?” Porthos snaps. “It’s nearly eight, and no one’s home.”

 

“Huh? I’m at Sylvie’s. It’s barely after seven,” Athos says. She starts at seven thirty, and she only left about ten minutes ago. 

 

“Of course you fucking are. Because where else would you be on a Thursday? Again, Athos!” Porthos says, voice taught. Athos sits up, frowning. 

 

“You know I barely keep track of days. What’s the matter? Isn’t Aramis there?”

 

“No. I don’t know where he is, he’s not answering his phone or his texts. He left me a text earlier, saying he was going to Anne’s, I assumed he meant for dinner or something.”

 

“It’s only seven, sweetheart, it’s not late yet it really isn’t.”

 

“The electricity’s out. And there’s nothing here to eat. And one of my students called me a fat fuck and threw a book at me, and another was making loud transphobic jokes, and someone thought it hysterically funny to draw dicks on all the models on someone’s textiles work-book, and I’m so fucking fucking sick of teenagers and Christmas and it’s cold and no one’s home.”

 

“I can come home,” Athos says. 

 

“No. Don’t be absurd. You don’t even want to.”

 

“Come here, then,” Athos says, on a whim. “Sylvie’s at work till later, and there’s ice cream in the freezer.”

 

“No. I’m going now, bye.”

 

Porthos hangs up. Athos sends him a heart and a kiss, via text, and then goes back to being hedonistic and thinking about the people he loves. He sends Aramis a text to get his arse in gear and ring Porthos, too. He’s half dozing off when the doorbell goes, and isn’t sure of time, thinking maybe he actually fell asleep and it’s Sylvie back. He pads through the house, smiling, and opens the door with as sultry an air as he can. It’s Porthos, though, and Athos is a little taken aback, and it must show.

 

“Just me,” Porthos snaps. “Fucking fuck of a day. Ice cream, cuddles. Now, please.”

 

“Hear from ‘mis yet?” Athos asks, opening the door properly to let him in. 

 

“You have no clothes on,” Porthos says, shutting the door quickly. 

 

“I have pants,” Athos says. 

 

“Knickers. With frilly bits and lace. Are those silk?”

 

“Yes,” Athos says. “I’ll go get a dressing gown on. Flop on the sofa. Aramis?”

 

“Haven’t heard.”

 

Athos texts Anne while he’s in the bedroom, and when he wanders back through Porthos’s phone is ringing. Athos smiles and goes to get the ice cream.

 

“It’s ‘mis. You’re fucking magic you are,” Porthos calls. “Hello? Yeah, hi, where the fuck are you? You fucker.”

 

Athos considers bowls, then gets two spoons instead, and goes back to Porthos, dropping down next to him. He leans back, and Porthos gets an arm around him, mouth against Athos’s neck, nuzzling in under his dressing gown. Athos spoons up some ice cream and holds it up for Porthos. 

 

“Yeah, fine. I’m pissed though,” Porthos says. “You’re not meant to do that… yes, because he does it by accident, doesn’t notice the day, and calls me! And pays attention to me. Fuck you fuck you! Bye, Aramis… yes, fine, do whatever. I told you, I’m pissed… yes, you know that… fine. Bye.”

 

“Mm?” Athos asks. 

 

“He’s sleeping at Anne’s, some kind of Christmas thing for Louis, I don’t know. He asked if I was angry with him,” Porthos says. “Why’m I always chasin’ you two up, eh? You’re never after me, neither of you.”

 

“Christ, Porthos,” Athos says with a sigh. “Would you stop?”

 

“No. It’s Thursday. No one was home. You’re both staying away.”

 

“My offer to come home is genuine. And here we are, spending Thursday together.”

 

“I’m so angry. Really, really angry. Not with you guys, with the world at large, and my students, and school, and at Christmas. I just want a quiet, safe space, ok? To come home to. Not a cold house with no one in it.”

 

“Here you are, with me.”

 

“Weren’t exactly glad to see me, were you? Hoping it were Sylvie.”

 

“No, I  _ thought _ it was Sylvie. I am glad to see you, I always am. Honestly, I love the stuffing out of you, which you know.”

 

“I guess I do know that, don’t I? Uuuugh, I’m knackered.”

 

“One more day. Which you could take off, really. It’s not like there’ll be much going on tomorrow. I’m not doing work, I’m planning on staying here, but sleep over on the sofa, and when Sylvie goes to work tomorrow, we’ll go home, make waffles.”

 

“You want to spend time with her, not with me.”

 

“Porthos!”

 

“I can’t help it, ok? I want to be reassured. My heart fucking aches,” Porthos says. 

 

“I love you, okay? I think you’re brilliant. Now, let’s eat ice cream, and you can snuggle, and tomorrow I will invite Sylvie to dinner, and everything will be fine. I’ll spend time with both of you.”

 

“I like giving you my time. Yeah? Ok?”

 

“Ok. Then give me tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Would be nice, to just be done with it. OK.”

 

“Do you want the TV on?”

 

“No.”

 

They sit quietly, Athos tucked in against Porthos’s side. Porthos eats the ice cream and then sprawls, slowly drooping entirely against Athos. He ends up with his head in Athos’s lap, asleep. Athos covers him with a quilt off the back of the sofa, and pets his hair, strokes his cheek. He’s looking down at Porthos, a little worried by his restlessness, when Sylvie gets in. 

 

“How did it go?” Athos asks. 

 

“It was good. Tiring, but a very good night. Is that Porthos?”

 

“Yeah. Bad day. Is he okay to sleep out here?”

 

“Yep. Are you coming to bed?”

 

“Yeah, in a bit. Shower and get ready, and I’ll join you?”

 

“Okay. I’m tired, I’ll tell you a bit about it though. It was really good.”

 

“I’m glad. Come here, hmm?” 

 

She comes, and he tips his head back, hand cradling Porthos’s cheek, lips against Sylvie’s, he hand against his neck, pressing very slightly. She pulls back, giving him breath, and he smiles up at her easily, widely, warm and sleepy. Porthos shifts, distracting him, and Sylvie slips off to shower. 

 

“Shh. Sweetheart, shush. Rest now,” Athos whispers, leaning close to Porthos, pressing a kiss to his ear. “Shh. That’s it.”

 

Porthos wakes, though, with a start. Athos helps him sit up and rubs between his shoulder blades. Tears come, and Porthos sits staring, listing, silent and wide-eyed and tears just sliding over his cheeks. 

 

“Bad dream?” Athos asks. 

 

Porthos nods. Athos tucks himself close again and wraps his arms around Porthos, trying to reassure him. Sylvie comes in and then retreats at once, returning with a duvet. Athos wraps Porthos in it and lies down with him. 

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Athos says.  

 

“You’re with family here,” Sylvie says, softly, gazing down at Porthos. “You’re always welcome. Do you want Athos, tonight? Out here with you?”

 

“I’ll stay with you, until you sleep,” Athos says. 

 

“I’m ok, it was just a dream,” Porthos mumbles. “Basically asleep again. I’m good, Ath.”

 

“Sure?” Athos asks. Porthos smiles, which is answer enough, eyes opening a little. He touches Athos’s lips. 

 

“Family,” Porthos whispers. “‘course I’m good.”

 

“You are,” Athos says. “Alright. Goodnight, then. I truly love you, you know that? So much.”

 

“Know. Mm?”

 

“Yes, I know too,” Athos says. 

 

“Th’stuffin’,” Porthos mutters, and falls asleep grinning. 

 

Athos gets up and wraps himself around Sylvie, kissing her senseless, running hands over her, holding her close and dear and loving her so full and warm that he thinks he might burst. He sways, tucking her head under his chin, tucking her close and closer, warm against him, her pyjamas too short and shivering for winter, just a t-shirt and shorts. He kisses her hair and her ear and presses close to her. 

 

“Sylvie, you’re astounding. Thank you so much,” Athos says. 

 

“He is family,” Sylvie says. “I know that. I like him just fine.”

 

“I know, I know. It’s so easy, for you. You both just give me so much, and still have so much left over. Love, you really do astound me,” Athos says. 

 

“You’re very sentimental.”

 

“He is… he is… Porthos,” Athos tries to explain. “Porthos. He’s my best friend.”

 

“I know. Bed, Athos, I’m tired. Tell me nice things about me. I astound you?”

 

“You do. Completely. Overawe me. Overwhelm me. You’re beautiful, every little bit of you.”

 

“Full of words. Tell me more.”

 

They make their way to the bedroom, and Athos tells her everything, pretending he’s writing it, pressing words into her skin, until they’re both asleep, dreaming of each other, twined together. 

###  TEN: DECEMBER TWENTY THIRD

 

Porthos is embarrassed in the morning, but he makes toast and coffee and when Athos gets up he finds Porthos and Sylvie on the sofa together, looking through a book, passing passages back and forth, laughing. Porthos gets Athos a mug and retreats to shower, leaving them alone. 

 

“He’s being different with me,” Sylvie says. 

 

“You called him family,” Athos says, lips twitching. “Thought it wouldn’t change anything? It’s Porthos. Family is everything to him, and you let him into yours. That’s important. It’s sort of like getting married.”

 

“Athos, stop teasing me,” Sylvie says. 

 

“I’m not. You basically married him, yesterday,” Athos says. 

 

“Get out. You’re horrible,” Sylvie says. Then she smiles a sly, quick little smile and tips her head back on the sofa, calling. “Porthos!”

 

He wanders in, a towel around his hips, toothbrush in his mouth. Athos’s toothbrush, Athos notices. 

 

“Mpgfh?” Porthos says, foam over his lip. 

 

“Athos says we got married last night.”

 

Porthos gives Athos a scandalised look, and hurries to the kitchen sink, spitting and rinsing. He comes back over and takes Athos’s coffee, barely half drunk. 

 

“You don’t deserve it,” Porthos says, and stalks back to the bathroom. 

 

“Tell-tale,” Athos grumbles, wanting his coffee back. 

 

Porthos comes out fully dressed and sits by Sylvie, sipping Athos’s coffee with every sign of enjoyment. 

 

“I don’t believe in marriage,” Porthos says. 

 

“I wouldn’t mind marrying you,” Sylvie says. “Platonic weddings. Sounds fun. I want a big white poofy dress.”

 

“Yeah?” Porthos says, grinning. “Alright. I’ve got the money, my Dad left me shit loads of guilt money, I’m richer than Athos. Pick any dress you like.”

 

They spend the rest of the time before Sylvie has to go to work with their heads bent together over Athos’s ipad, honest to god looking at wedding dresses and planning a wedding. When Sylvie goes, Athos turns a glare on Porthos, but Porthos just laughs, sprawling over the sofa, head hanging off the edge to look at Athos upside down. 

 

“We’re playing,” Porthos says. “She’s cool, though. Real family, she is. I like her.”

 

“I think I preferred it when you were wary, you know,” Athos says. “This is terrible. You took my coffee away.” 

 

“You completely and utterly deserve it. Shall we go pick up Aramis?”

 

“Not angry anymore?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Athos takes Porthos home anyway, deciding Aramis can make his own way there. To his surprise, Aramis is already back, lying face down on the sofa. He sits up when Athos wanders in with coffee, and glares, red-eyed and weeping. 

 

“Oh no. Not you too,” Athos says. 

 

“Me too what?” Aramis croaks, snuffling. 

 

“The crying,” Porthos says, pushing in behind Athos. “Aw, babe.”

 

He sits on the sofa, making them both bounce, and embraces Aramis with his arms and legs. Aramis sobs into his shoulder, clutching his shirt. Porthos pats his back and rubs his shoulders and hair, and making clucking soothing noises. 

 

“What happened?” Athos asks. 

 

“I don’t… like… Christmas,” Aramis gulps, gasping between words, a fresh storm of weeping coming after. 

 

“Your Mamma, eh?” Porthos says. “It’s okay. Shh. You can do other things with Louis, no need for this. You’re home now. Hush, you’re home, with family. We’re here, both me and Athos are here. Just us, and you, so settle down and grieve a little less violently. You’re gonna make yourself sick doing that.”

 

Aramis does calm a little. Athos shifts to the sofa, abandoning coffee, and joins the embrace, pressing his cheek to Aramis’s hair, cradling his head against Porthos’s shoulder. 

 

“Well now, we’ve both had our Christmas crying, I think,” Porthos says, smiling. 

 

“I can’t do it,” Aramis says, sounding astounded by that. “I thought it would be different, that it would have gone away. But here I am. Sorry about yesterday Porthos.

 

“I wasn’t angry with you,” Porthos says. “I honestly don’t mind when you need to spend time with your kids, even on Wednesday or Thursday. I just had a bloody awful day, too. Don’t you worry about that, ok?”

 

“I didn’t answer, when you tried to reach me,” Aramis says. 

 

“I get that you couldn’t. It really is alright. I went to Sylvie’s,” Porthos says. “They looked after me fine. Athos definitely owes me a couple of years looking after.”

 

“Hey,” Athos says, laughing, transferring his arms to wrap tightly around Porthos’s head. “I never turned up weeping on your-”

 

Athos stops, laughing harder, because he totally HAS turned up weeping on Porthos’s doorstep, on more than one occasion. And when it became too much of a habit, Porthos invested his time and money and energy into building this home for them, so they’d all have somewhere to come, somewhere safe to weep. Athos huffs, and gentles his hold, pressing a kiss to Porthos’s hair. Porthos tips his head, grinning. 

 

“Yeah, you’ve done good,” Athos says. 

 

“You’ve forgotten me,” Aramis says in a small voice. “I’ve got invisible again, Porthos, I’ve blended into you. You’re hugging me too hard.”

 

His voice gets stronger as he goes, and he wriggles, loosening Porthos’s arms around him and shifting Athos off him so he can unbury himself from them and sit up. He’s still red eyed and looks pale and unhappy, but he’s amused himself and he’s not crying. He rubs his face dry on Porthos’s sleeve, then slumps, resting against Porthos’s shoulder. Athos follows his lead and slumps against Porthos’s other side. 

 

“Why do I always have to be the pillow?” Porthos grumbles. 

 

“Because you’re lovely and soft,” Athos says. 

 

“And because you tolerate it so kindly,” Aramis says. “Such a gentle soul, our Porthos.”

 

“A warm heart,” Athos agrees, tapping Porthos’s chest over his heart. 

 

“Generous everywhere,” Aramis says, nodding, patting his stomach. 

 

“So much gentle caring and warmth-”

 

“Shut up,” Porthos says. 

 

Aramis laughs, looking up at Porthos from his slump. Athos examines the lines of his face, the lightness of his features. He’s almost fragile, delicate, but that’s misleading. Aramis is made of iron, adamantine beneath his delicacy. His skin is white from the winter months, but Athos knows it’ll darken in the sun, and the beauty of it will survive that, survive sunburn and mud and water and dirt. Will survive aging, too- there’s already grey in his beard, and a little in his hair, and when he smiles his face creases. The life of him is as beautiful as the delicacy. Athos knows the he’ll sit up in a minute, go and make himself a cup of tea, and come back put together. 

 

“Stay here,” Athos murmurs, reaching over to clasp Aramis’s forearm. “Be quiet with us for a while. Let me make tea?”

 

“What?” Aramis asks, looking from Porthos to Athos, brow creased in confusion. “Oh. Tea would be nice, and so would quiet.”

 

“Don’t suppose you’re planning on-” Porthos starts, but Athos cuts him off with a pat to his belly. 

 

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Athos promises. “And I’ll bring snacks. I know your stomach, my friend.”

 

“Tea and sandwiches. Wow. He’s feeling indulgent, love,” Aramis says. 

 

“Sylvie’s softened him from melty butter to absolute liquid,” Porthos agrees. 

 

Athos gets up and hits them with a cushion on his way out, leaving them laughing. He makes a whole pot of tea, and a whole plate of sandwiches, and needs two trips to get all the snacks he finds to the living-room, along with mugs and the tea and the sandwiches and a carton of juice and a bottle of water. Porthos and Aramis have entwined themselves together, Porthos’s feet up on the table, Aramis’s legs on top, resting crooked. Porthos’s arms around Aramis, and Aramis’s around Porthos’s middle. Porthos’s cheek rests against Aramis’s hair. Athos watches them a moment, before joining them.

 

“We were thinking about going to see a film, Christmas day,” Porthos murmurs. 

 

“Star Wars, maybe,” Aramis says. 

 

“Very Jewish,” Athos approves. “Did you invite Elodie to the twenty seventh affirmalunch, Porthos?”

 

“I’m not calling it that,” Porthos says. 

 

“Everyone else is,” Aramis says. “Did you invite her?”

 

“Yeah. She hasn’t said yes or no yet.”

 

“Have you said yes or no to lighting the menorah tomorrow?” Athos asks. 

 

“It’s a bit much, I’ve said no,” Porthos says. “Maybe next year. Or maybe next year we’ll do it here, with so many of us Jewish now. Though Elodie isn’t, actually, I guess. Her husband was, and she wants Marie to have it.”

 

Athos nods, and Aramis gives Porthos a squeeze. They sit quietly, commenting now and then on one thing or another but mostly just silent, sharing space and breathing, resting. It’s good, to feel so safe and connected. It’s also nice to have quiet with Aramis and Porthos. Athos suddenly feels like he’s spent too much time away. He snuggles closer and rests a leg over Porthos’s thigh, against Aramis’s knee, and feeds Porthos grapes. Porthos sucks on Athos’s fingers, but is more interested in the food than in carrying that thought through.  They’re out of snacks, and Athos really needs a wee when, at about four o’clock, the doorbell goes. 

 

“Are we expecting company?” Porthos grumbles, glaring at Athos as if it’s his fault their quiet has been interrupted. 

 

“I invited Sylvie, but after work, she won’t be here until ten or eleven,” Athos says. 

 

“Shall we see who it is?” Aramis asks. “I’ll go, I need the bathroom anyway.”

 

“Leave them on the doorstep,” Athos says. 

 

“Uncharitable. Ohh, it might be carol singers!” Porthos says, lighting up. “Oh, uh, sorry babe.”

 

“I know you like singing,” Aramis says. “Go on. I’ll race Athos for the loo, he’s been squirming for about ten minutes and I can see him calculating.”

 

Athos, who has just shifted himself in preparation for sidling quickly off and beating Aramis, jumps off the sofa. Aramis chases him, laughing, and they push towards the downstairs loo together. They shove in and get stuck in the doorway, and end up both in there taking turns. Aramis finds it terribly entertaining and leches on Athos, peering over his shoulder and making comments. Athos gets him back by getting the tap to spray him and they fall back out into the hall, like badly behaved children, toppling right into Porthos as he walks past arm linked with Elodie. 

 

“Oh!” Aramis says. “Sorry!”

 

“Gracious,” Elodie says, unlinking herself. “I can’t stay for coffee, Porthos. Marie’s in the car. I’m just dropping things.”

 

“Bring her in,” Porthos says. “The house is good for kids, Aramis’s are always running about the place under foot.”

 

“No. I need to get back. I’ll see you on the twenty seventh, though. Really. I need to go.”

 

Porthos grumbles wordlessly, catching her around the waist and pulling her up on her toes against his chest. She laughs and kisses him, and then rests, looking up at him. Aramis wraps an arm around Athos’s waist, breath tickling his ear. 

 

“Look at how adoring she is,” He whispers. 

 

“Look at Porthos,” Athos whispers back. 

 

“Awww,” Aramis breathes. 

 

“Right. Off you go, then, before our peanut gallery really gets going,” Porthos says, letting Elodie go. “Thanks, it means a lot to me, yeah?”

 

“I know,” Elodie says. “Twenty seventh. I’ll tell Marie you say hello. Oh!” she presses a quick kiss to Porthos’s cheek. “That’s from her.”

 

Porthos beams, touching the place she just kissed, and is completely unable to speak or do anything except gaze at her as she bustles back out and slams the front door. Athos can’t help the high laugh that sneaks out, almost a giggle, and Aramis is biting his lip. As soon as Porthos turns to look at them, Aramis lets out a little squeal and goes to embrace Porthos in a strangling hug. 

 

“You’re adorable,” Aramis says. “God, that was the absolute cutest thing.”

 

“What did she want?” Athos asks, resting a hand in the small of Aramis’s back. 

 

“Dropping gifts off, from my classes. Got some cards, and some stuff. Not sure, There’s a box in the living-room. I was trying to get her in for coffee, but you lot tumbled about and freed her from my evil clutches.”

 

“Our gentle Porthos would NEVER clutch evilly,” Aramis says fervently, pressing little kisses all over Porthos’s hair and cheeks and nose and eyelids. 

 

Athos laughs, leaning into Aramis’s back, pressing his own kiss to Aramis’s neck. He loves the fool, even when he’s being completely ridiculous. They shuffle back to the living-room and set the box on their laps, unpacking things and oohing and aahing over chocolates and cards and mugs. Lots of mugs. Porthos has a huge collection of gifted mugs. He gets a lot of art and crafted things as well, this year there are several new decorations for the tree, and a bunch of crocheted snowflakes, and paper ones too. There’s stationary, of course. Fancy and not so fancy. Porthos has to wipe tears away when they’re done, surrounded by the evidence that he’s a wonderful teacher, even if he does miss most of Christmas week. 

 

###  ELEVEN: DECEMBER TWENTY SEVENTH 

 

“Porthos. Porthos. Porthos!”

 

Porthos, spinning around and around in the kitchen, feet skipping, arms pinwheeling, singing along the millionth replay of Pentatonix’ God Rest ye Merry Gentlemen at top volume, finally hears Aramis and stops, on one bare foot, arms out, and looks over his shoulder at Aramis. 

 

“Music off please!” Aramis shouts. 

 

Athos, closer to the laptop, presses pause on the youtube video and carries on chopping pepper batons, trying to get them the exact same size. If he takes long enough over this Porthos can do most of the lunch prep and Athos can just make peppers nicely symmetrical. Porthos stands up properly and leans on the counter. 

 

“You don’t like, baby?” he asks Aramis, arms crossed over his chest, pouting. 

 

“Not a billion times in a row, so loud, with you singing off tune,” Aramis says, sounding irritable. 

 

“Eh. Play the next one then, Ath,” Porthos says, bouncing over to wrap himself around Athos from behind. 

 

Aramis sighs, and stomps away. Athos hears him go up the stairs, and Porthos gets the next video up, resting against Athos. His free hand creeps under Athos’s jumper, which tickles. Athos jerks, and headbutts Porthos in the face by accident, knocking his glasses off. 

 

“Ow! Fuck!” Porthos says, stepping away. “Athos!”

 

“Sorry, you tickled me!” Athos says, turning, pulling Porthos’s hand away from his nose. 

 

“I think I’m bleeding. Am I bleeding?” Porthos says, sniffing. 

 

“No. Not hurt. Just dramatic. Oh, your nose does look a bit bruised actually,” Athos says, touching the mark between Porthos’s eyes where his glasses must have pushed in. 

 

“Yeah. I AM bruised,” Porthos says. “Where are me glasses? Are they broke?”

 

Athos scoops them up and sets them back on Porthos’s face, nearly poking him in the eye. 

 

“Sorry. I’m intent on hurting you today,” Athos says. 

 

“Mm. Okay,” Porthos says. “You look hot, with your hair like that. Is this Miley Cyrus?”

 

Athos touches his ponytail, pleased, and then glances at the laptop and shrugs, turning to change it back to Pentatonix. 

 

“Put something achey on,” Porthos says, following and snugging himself up behind Athos again, nuzzling behind his ear. 

 

“Tom Waits?” Athos suggests, pulling up his Tom Waits playlist. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just puts on Dirt in the Ground.

 

“Well, I suppose achey could also be sad as fuck and deeply depressing. I meant more, like, Nights in White Satin,” Porthos says. 

 

“You said achey, not shit,” Athos says with great dignity, going back to his pepper cutting. 

 

While Athos chops the things Porthos gives him, Porthos makes roast pepper and goats cheese puff pastry tartlet things, baked potatoes, halloumi and chickpea salad, a green salad, coleslaw, warms up some focaccia. With the change from Christmas songs to Tom Waits Aramis returns, and he and Athos are tasked with setting the table while Porthos puts flourishes on things and sets them out looking beautiful. He’s got the playlist again, and they’re listening to Dolly Parton, Always Love you. Porthos is snuffling suspiciously as he comes and goes, and Athos and Aramis exchange amused looks. When he brings the last dish in and sets it down, they ambush him and keep him there, snugged between them, so he can’t escape. 

 

“Oh,” he says, then laughs, sniffing. “Um. Hi?”

 

“You’re such a sop,” Athos says, thumbing a tear away. 

 

“Completely ridiculous,” Aramis agrees, kissing his damp cheek. 

 

Better Get to Living comes on next, still Dolly, and Porthos bounces a little, already dancing before they let him go. He spins and laughs, throwing his arms around them both, nearly cracking their heads together. 

 

“I like this one!” he says. 

 

“Yes, got that,” Aramis says. 

 

The doorbell goes, and they all go to get it, Athos opens the door though and greets Alice with a little bow. 

 

“Alice!” Porthos cries, shoving Athos out of the way and hugging Alice, lifting her off her feet and into the hall, enthusiastic and bright. “I cried at Dolly Parton.”

 

“Always love you?” Alice asks. “You always do.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “Come dance, I’m gonna put a dancing playlist on.”

 

Porthos, for some reason, decides dancing is going to be happening in the kitchen. He and Alice are soon joined by Margueritte, Aramis, Louis, Anne and Matty, and then by Flea and Charon. Athos plays doorman and sits in the living room with Marguerite. The others are dancing to Justin timberlake Can’t Stop this Feeling, when Elodie and Sylvie and Constance arrive together, Elodie with a small blond girl on her hip. Athos kisses Sylvie and hugs Constance and then turns to Elodie, not sure how to say hello. She solves it by kissing his cheek. 

 

“Nice to see you, thanks for having me,” She says. “I brought a couple of bottles of wine, they’re in the car. Porthos said not to bring anything, but I did. This is Marie, my daughter. Marie, this is Athos. He’s one of Porthos’s friends. I think Athos is a boyfriend.”

 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Porthos says, coming out. “Connie said they ran into you on the drive. Hi, Marie, want to come dance with us? Meet some other kids? They’re all bigger than you, but you can boss them.”

 

Marie, so far buried firmly in her mother’s shoulder, sits up at the sound of Porthos’s voice and squeals happily, holding her arms out to him and lurching toward him, laughing. He catches her and swoops her toward the kitchen, now thumping out ‘Till the Love runs Out by One Republic. Athos retreats to the living-room, and Elodie follows. 

 

“Porthos has terrible taste in music,” she explains, taking the armchair, leaving Athos to sit with Margueritte and Constance. 

 

“He likes Tom Waits,” Athos says, a little affronted. “And… and this is Margueritte, Aramis’s oldest.”

 

“Ah,” Elodie says. “I’m Elodie, nice to meet you.”

 

“Are you one of Porthos’s, or one of Athos’s?” Margueritte asks. 

 

“Maybe she’s one of mine,” Constance says. “She’s Porthos’s. Who, you’re right though. He has awful music taste.” 

 

As if to prove her point, Take That’s Kidz comes on and Porthos cheers. Athos groans and gives in. He can’t really refute it, with that. Porthos waltzes in, Marie and Matty in his arms both laughing as they get spun round and round, Porthos’s feet carrying him in a graceful rhythm. 

 

“Potatoes are ready,” he says, breathless. 

 

“Lunch?” Constance says. “Finally! I’m starving.”

 

Athos waits until Constance has done her enthusiastic bouncing up and embracing Porthos and both children in his arms before and the mess of them waltz out to Here Comes the Sun, before he gets up. That chaos is always worth waiting out, or you might get trampled. Elodie and Margueritte follow him, and he feels like he’s heading up the ‘quiet contingent’, when they walk into the dining room, where they have the bigger table, and everyone is laughing and talking and so very loud. He sits at the end, and Elodie goes to get Marie from Porthos and then to help him get the music to go off and bring drinks through. Margueritte sits between Athos and Aramis, leaning around to say a shy hello to Paulina. 

 

“Treville says he’ll be late and to go on without him, Pip,” Charon calls to Porthos.

 

“Right, right,” Porthos says. “Always late. What about Balthi and Jude?”

 

“They’re outside,” Constance says, looking at her phone. 

 

Porthos jogs to let Constance’s brothers in, and then the table is full, apart from Treville. Porthos shushes them all and lets Balthazar say a quick prayer. Athos looks around the table, and huffs out a breath at their wacky little family, which isn’t so little anymore. Marguerite, with her porcelain skin and long hair, Aramis, darker, and then Paulina, so pale and fey. Then Matty, brown and round as a little hazelnut, Louis and Anne, Elodie with Marie and Porthos next to her, d’Artagnan, Constance, Sylvie. Balthazar and Jude, and then Flea, Charon her other side, and then Athos himself. 

 

“To Porthos, for bringing us together,” Athos says, when Balthazar finishes his blessing with amen and the quiet is still mostly intact. 

 

“Well that’s sentimental,” Porthos says, beaming at Athos. “To Athos, instead, eh? Or all of you lot. Yeah, I’ll drink to all you lot.”

 

Athos rolls his eyes, but the quiet is gone and everyone’s reaching for food, talking over one another, laughing, calling their own toasts. The children crash their cups together enthusiastically, and Marie leans over to tip her plastic cup of water onto Porthos’s lap, dribbling after it, spitting a cracker into the mess. Porthos just grabs a napkin and sops up most of it, then leaves a dry one on his thigh. He glances up at notices Athos watching, and Athos raises his glass. Porthos smiles, shuts his eyes tightly for a minute, then inclines his head in acceptance. 

 

Later Agnes and Henry join them, and evening comes, and with evening sundown. Constance has brought the menorah with her, and they gather around to light the candle together. Athos holds Marie and slows the prayers for her, showing her the sounds. She presses little fingers to his lips, as if to catch the unfamiliar words. Elodie, Athos realises after they’re done, is crying against Porthos’s shoulder, so Athos keeps Marie with him and tells her the stories he was told as a child. She’s only three, but she’s got language and she listens and she seems quite intelligent. Porthos comes and sits with them, after a while, and she climbs into his lap and rests trustingly against his chest, little cheek squished, and when Athos looks at him, Porthos has such an expression on his face. Of trust and awe and absolute love. Athos caresses his cheek and kisses him and holds him by the back of the neck, and loves him so so much. 

###  TWELVE: DECEMBER TWENTY-EIGHTH

  
  


Porthos finds Athos at twelve thirty. Athos has been sat up in the attic since six am. It’s a big empty room, with a window. They have a few boxes up there, but not much. It’s a big house and they always forget about the space up here. It’s too low to really use for much other than storage. Athos sits cross legged in front of the window, with a bottle of whiskey, a blanket around his shoulders, and stares out at the grey rain. By the time Porthos climbs up Athos is tolerably pissed, and the whiskey bottle is tolerably empty. Porthos has to stoop, and he grumbles when he folds himself down next to Athos, stretching his back out reaching a heavy arm over Athos’s shoulders. 

 

“I’m so glad I found you guys,” Athos mumbles, words slurring a bit, tongue thick. 

 

“It’s pissing it down outside. Aramis went for a walk in it, got back soaked to the skin half an hour ago. Warmed him up with a shower and a snuggle in bed, and he cried himself off to sleep,” Porthos says. 

 

“Is he alright?”

 

“Yes, he’s good,” Porthos says. “He says that he never wanted to celebrate christmas, and it was always like his body reacted to a hurt that his mind could never comprehend fully. That every year he’d just repeat the physical pain of grief. And there was no one to ask for things he needed, because it was always christmas, and family time. A time for being happy and positive. But now he has us, and we’re here for him and are his support even when it’s christmas and everyone is busy. We celebrate things in our own ways, and affirm our family and our love in every way we can think of, and we don’t need to do christmas because the good things that happen at christmas happen anyway, all the time, with us. 

 

“Christmas happens, for Aramis. The date, the feeling, the emptiness of something that used to be full. That happens. And now it’s over, and he is left in a place where his body and mind are back in a different time, and his heart hurts. But we’re here, and he’s had support and time and love, and when he wakes up he’ll have a cup of tea, and get up and write out lists of all the good things in his life. He’ll go through his diary and put stars by the things he’s looking forward to. He’ll talk to his children on the phone and facetime and Skype, and he’ll talk to the people he loves. And he’ll remember that difficulty and fear and sadness don’t mean the end of the world. He’ll come find us, and we’ll snuggle together, and maybe watch a film. And eat good things.”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Athos agrees, nodding too much and making it feel like his head’s going to fall off and roll across the floor. “What if I hurt Sylvie, Porthos? Like I hurt Annie.”

 

Porthos is silent. Athos awaits judgement for his crimes, staring out at the rain, listening to it on the roof. 

 

“You might, I suppose,” Porthos says. “You don’t, on the whole. Hurt people.”

 

“I hurt Anne. I hurt my father. I hurt my mother. I hurt Thomas,” Athos says, tears pricking his eyes thinking of the list of people he’s let down and damaged and fought with. 

 

“I don’t have any wisdom, or judgements, or redemption,” Porthos says. “I know you don’t celebrate Christmas, but it’s still that time of year, when things feel. I think you’re like Aramis, you’ll feel better going forwards instead of looking back. For you, the past is something you need to feel remorse for. You think that you have acted wrongly, and you learnt things from acting that way, things that are important to you. I know that. But beating yourself up about it isn’t doing a thing. You’ve been sat up here glooming for hours.”

 

“I have acted wrongly,” Athos says. 

 

“Alright. But right and wrong aren’t black and white, and there’s no one morality. It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Porthos says. “You might in the future act wrongly again, you might hurt Sylvie, you might hurt me or Aramis. Any of us might hurt you. What’re you gonna do? Sit up here forever? Lock yourself in a room? Do you think that’s an act that’s right or wrong?”

 

“Probably wrong.”

 

“Might that not hurt us?”

 

“Yeah. Having a mad man locked in your attic is a bit too Bronte for modern times,” Athos says. “You’ll get judged by the neighbours.”

 

“Right. So whatever you do, there’s a possibility of people getting hurt, isn’t there?”

 

“Yeah,” Athos whispers, tears falling this time. 

 

“But the only course of action where people are certain to get hurt is you drinking yourself to oblivion in the fucking attic,” Porthos says. “I know that certainty, that control, is reassuring to you, but, you know. It’s a fucking stupid course of action.”

 

“Maybe I am fucking stupid,” Athos says, letting the tears slide over his face into his beard. 

 

“Definitely are,” Porthos agrees. “Look, I know, ok? I know that you’re feeling things right now, and that you don’t like what you’re feeling, and that there’s a whole lot going on. All kinds of things that are hurting you. I know you’re scared, and worried, and, um, angsty. But you know what else I know? I know that I haven’t been great, this month. I’ve had a hard end of term, and haven’t been my happiest or my best, and I know who it is that has been here for me. I know you’ve given up time and made effort and thought about things and fixed what you can for me. I know that you’ve done the same for Aramis, and that when Sylvie was tired after performing or if it went bad, you were there for her too. You’re looking for all the bad wrong things you’ve done. But you also do good things.”

 

“I suppose I do,” Athos says. “I don’t mean to.”

 

“Yes you do. You know you mean to. You try, and you think about it, and you make a commitment and do things to keep us happy and safe, and build our home, and build our lives, and you’re making strides into making Sylvie part of your life. Doing these things for yourself doesn’t mean you’re not doing them for us as well. And, you know those bad things you think you’re going to do?”

 

“Yeah,” Athos says. 

 

“For every one of those bad things you’re worried about, that you think you might possibly maybe do if the circumstances happen? I know for a fact that you’re planning about a hundred little nice things you might be able to do for all of us for each of those. Absent mindedly thinking about dates we might enjoy, meals you can cook for us, snacks you can make, time in bed with us, snuggles on the sofa, what it’s like to hug us, how to cheer Aramis up, a million things. You haven’t noticed any of that, just the bad things that might maybe possibly probably won’t happen.”

 

“You make me sound better than I am.”

 

“No, I just make you sound like you’re kind and thoughtful, which you don’t think of yourself as. It’s something you work to be. You are, though. Soft as melty butter.”

 

“I don’t feel soft.”

 

Porthos shrugs, stretching out his back again. 

 

“You are, whatever you think. Doesn’t matter. Make a plan to do something nice for Sylvie, if you’re worried about hurting. Make a commitment, give her something nice like a good dinner out, I dunno. Plan a nice thing to focus on instead,” Porthos says. “And come downstairs, make me a toastie. Snuggle. Stop brooding up here and turning yourself in knots.”

 

“You look after us so well, Porthos,” Athos says, leaning into him. 

 

“Yeah, well, you return it. Come on, out of here. If you try and go down on your own I’m afraid you’ll fall off the ladder, so come and reassure me by letting me hold onto your hips, eh? You can be sexy.”

 

Athos thinks about that, considering his options. He decides that actually he might fall down the ladder, so he nods. Porthos goes first, and then Athos. He climbs down securely, Porthos’s strong hands keeping him steady. Porthos puts the ladder away, then lifts Athos. 

 

“I left my blanket,” Athos says, looping his arms around Porthos’s neck. 

 

“Never mind.”

 

“I don’t want to make you toasties.”

 

“No. That’s ok,” Porthos says. 

 

He takes Athos to the bedroom and lays him next to Aramis. Athos makes little protesting noises until Porthos lies down with them. Then he wraps himself around Aramis, who doesn’t wake but flops an arm around Athos’s shoulders. Porthos hugs them both, and Athos falls asleep with just a few more tears. 

 

When he wakes, he’s alone. He can hear laughter downstairs, though. He wraps himself in the blanket on the foot of the bed, fetched from the attic at some point, and heads down. Aramis and Porthos are in the kitchen, Aramis perched on the stool, Porthos making waffles. Athos steps into the room, then stops, staring. 

 

“Hey,” Sylvie says, sat on the counter by the waffle iron. Porthos turns and grins at him. 

 

“Look who showed up on our doorstep,” Porthos says, coming to get hold of Athos’s waist, pulling him close and nuzzling behind his ear, whispering. “She really did just come over, I didn’t do anything. She’s a real good lady, Athos. You keep tight hold of her, eh? She’s family now.”

 

“As you wish,” Athos says, holding onto Porthos’s biceps. 

 

“I do wish it,” Porthos says, straightening, lifting Athos off his feet for a moment then setting him down. 

 

Athos goes over to kiss Aramis, and cups his cheek, looking into his eyes and examining his pale face. Aramis manages a warm genuine smile, and Athos smile back, convinced that he’s really ok. He kisses each of Aramis’s eyes, which always get a bit sore when he cries. Then he goes over to Sylvie, who’s looking very amused and fond. She opens her knees to make space for him, and he presses his hands to her jeans, her thighs tensing under his hands. She holds his face and kisses him, hair falling around them. Athos sighs into it, blanket falling away. 

 

“Shit,” Porthos mutters. “Waffle. Oh, I burnt it. Never mind, Athos can have this one.”

 

Sylvie laughs, pulling away, and gets off the counter, chivvying Athos away so she can help Porthos. Athos goes to stand with Aramis and watch them. Aramis puts an arm around Athos’s waist and leans against his shoulder. 

 

“I have a feeling Porthos may be falling for your girlfriend again,” Aramis murmurs. 

 

“That only happened once,” Athos says.

 

He looks closer at Sylvie and Porthos, though, examining the way her hand lingers on his back, the long look he gives her, her hand resting a moment on his cheek when he gets waffle batter there, him brushing hair out of her face and his face and eventually twisting it all up onto the top of her head in a messy pile, tying it with his bandana. It falls out, and Sylvie laughs, doing it herself and getting most of it out of the way. Aramis might be right. Athos examines his feelings about that, but finds only happy acceptance. 

 

“What about you?” he asks Aramis. 

 

“I… am happy with what I have,” Aramis says. “I feel a little like I’m done, now. For a good while. I want to settle. Just… for things to settle, and not change for a bit.”

 

“That I think we can do,” Athos says. 

 

“We have it pretty good,” Aramis says. 

 

“Yeah, we do,” Athos says. 

 

Sylvie yelps, skipping out of Porthos’s reach all of a sudden. Porthos roars and chases her, catching her quickly and lifting her up, spinning her, hair coming loose and flying around them. She totters over to Athos and Aramis when Porthos sets her down, and Porthos finishes up the waffle batter, a huge stack of them in the oven. 

 

“I tried to eat one,” Sylvie says, grinning. “Apparently we have to wait.”

 

“Oh yes. No eating, not even to taste,” Aramis says seriously. “Gotta wait and wait and  _ wait _ .”

 

“I’m done now,” Porthos says, sending them a wounded look. Then he grins. “Waffles, guys.”

 

“Delicious,” Athos says. 

 

They all go through to the living-room, leaving Porthos to bring everything through on his own. He grumbles at them, but then sits by their feet, in front of the sofa, and serves them waffles and makes pleased, happy noises. Athos gives his scalp a quick affectionate scrub and Porthos leans his head against Athos’s knee. Between Sylvie and Aramis, Athos at his feet, with waffles, Athos feels perfectly content. Later he’ll cross the road to d’Artagnan and Constance’s to light the candles, and then he’ll come home again, to his big, beautiful, strange family. 


End file.
